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Shelf JHUT 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



JANE ROWLEY'S 



SCRAP B 



SIXTY YEARS' GLEANINGS. 






BOSTON: 
Press of Coburn Brothers 






COPYRIGHT, 

1888, 

BY TANE ROWLEY. 



Mr. Editor: 

In giving to the public the gleanings of 
sixty years, I feel as if I was parting with an 
old friend, but if they enjoy the reading as I 
have the compiling, I shall be amply rewarded 
for my trouble. 

JANE ROWLEY. 



POETRY. 

Oh ! poetry, source of purest delight, 

That can best breathe the feelings most dear to the heart ; 
That soul is involved in the darkness of night, 

Which proves not the pleasure 'tis thine to impart. 

The calm light of friendship, the warm glow of love, 
Thro' thee most expressively speak to the soul ; 

And the sad tale of pity most deeply can move 

When thy voice o'er our feelings exerts its control. 

Then here be thy gems as in memory's store, 
Preserved by the fostering protection of taste. 

I will sweetly beguile a lone hour to explore 
The gems that we thus have laid carefully past. 

Nor here while more noble productions we nurse, 
Let the feelings of an humbler muse be forgot ; 

But let them be cherished whatever their source, 

In the Scrap Book preserved from oblivion's dark lot. 



To every trifle scorn to take offence, 

It shows much pride or little sense ; 

Good nature and good sense must always join, — 

To err is human, to forgive, divine. 



JANE ROWLEYS 

THE POLE'S ADIEU. 

Star of my soul farewell ! 

I go to war and danger, 
I haste to meet in conflict fell 

The proud invading stranger. 
I leave thee, love, to save the land, — 

The land we dearly cherish, 
To break the link that binds the brave, 

To rescue or to perish. 

Farewell, farewell. 

Star of my soul, thy light 

No more shall shine before me, 
The flame of war glances redly bright, 

Destruction hovers o'er me ; 
Yet mourn not, love, for me, 

Remember, tho' we sever, 
The patriot brave who falls shall be 

With glory crowned forever. 
Farewell, farewell. 



By indolence, much is to be lost, and there is but 
little to be got by it, and lazy bones are particularly un- 
amiable. Where is the woman who can bear laziness in 
a man whom she honors with a place in her heart? 



SCRAP BOOK. 7 

THE BRIDE'S FATHER. 

The last kiss is given, the last adieu sighed, 

The bridegroom's away with his beautiful bride ; 

Alone sits the father, alone in his years ! 

The mansion is silent, the old man in tears. 

He thinks of her sweetness that soothed every care, 

And he fondly looks up as expecting her there, — 

Ah ! when was the time he such sorrow had shown, 

And she came not? — but now the old man weeps alone. 

And could she remember his fondness, that threw 

Fresh flowers o'er her path, every moment she knew, 

That granted each wish her light heart could prefer, 

Who in the wide world had but her — only her? 

Oh nature ! how strange and unfeeling appears 

This breaking of all the affections of }'ears, 

For one who a summer ago was unknown, 

Yet that one has her heart, — the old man weeps alone. 

No, not for a crown as an emperor's bride, 

Had ] quitted a father's affectionate side ! 

I'd think on his evenings, long, lonely and dim, 

And prize not a love not unconnected with him ; 

Deem'd the one who'd have sooth'd not my father's decline 

(Kow'er he might love me) unworthy of mine, 

Nor changed the affections 'heath which I have grown, 

Nor left a fond father, old, cheerless and lone. 

By E. Swain. 



8 JANE ROWLEYS 

'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD. 

'Tis sweet to love in childhood, when the souls that we 

bequeath, 
Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreathe ; 
When we feed the gentle robin and caress the leaping 

hound, 
And linger latest in the spot where buttercups are found ; 
When we seek the bee and lady-bird with laughter, shout 

and song, 
And think the days for wooing them can never be too 

long. 
'Tis sweet to love in childhood, and though w r aked by 

meanest things, 
The music that the heart yields then will never leave its 

strings. 

'Tis sweet to love in after years, the dear one by our side, 
To dote with all the mingled joys of fashion, hope and 

pride ; 
To think the chain around our heart will hold still warm 

and fast, 
And grieve to think that death will come to break that 

chain at last ; 
But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning hue by 

hue, — 
When eyes forget their kindly beams, and lips become 

untrue, — 



SCRAP BOOK. 9 

When stricken hearts are pining on through many a 

lonely hour, 
Who would not sigh, " "Tis sweeter far to love the bird 

and flower " ? 

'Tis sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of 

fame, 
To pant to live in glory's scrolls, though blood may trace 

the name ; 
'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold and hug it to our breast, 
To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of our rest ; 
But such devotion will not serve, however strong the 

zeal, 
To overthrow the altar where our childhood used to 

kneel ; 
Some bitter moments shall o'ercast the sum of wealth 

and power, 
And then proud man would fain go back to worship 

bird and flower. 

A woman should be the directing power that sets the 
machine of domestic life in motion, but she ought to be 
as careful that her influence is rather felt than seen, as 
a good watchmaker will exclude from the sight, the 
spring on which the watch depends. 



Silence is the softest response for all the contradic- 
tions that arise from impertinence, vulgarity and envy. 



16 JANE ROWLEYS 

Know ye the land where no pain or sorrow 

Shall darken the brow, or shall bow down the head, — 

Where no grief of to-day, and no thought of the-morrow 

Shall reach the glad heart, or appal it with dread ? 

Know ye the land of the spirit of peace, 

Where the joys never lessen, the hymns never cease, 

Where the friend of Our bosom here lost in the tomb 

Shall meet us again ever freed from its gloom ? 

Where the hearts here divided, united shall rest, 

And be healed of their woes in the realms of the blest, 

Where the tear shall not quench the bright beams of the 

eye, 
Where the hope here destroy'd meet fruition on high, 
And spirit with spirit in love only vie ? 
And the arm that chastised be extended to save, 
When the morn shall arise on the night of the grave. 
'Tis the home of the past, 'tis the region of truth, 
Where her children shall dwell in the region of youth. 
Oh ! dearer than aught to the sorrow worn soul, 
Are the dreams of that land and the hope of that goal. 



WOMAN. 



Some waltz, some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics, others are content 
With music, the most moderate shine as wits, 
While others have a turn for fits. — Byron. 



SCRAP BOOK. II 



THE RIVALS. 



Two rivals, young and aged met, 

Within the fairy bay, 
Where Beauty and her radiant set 

Of smiles and glances play. 
The one was Love, so fond and fair ; 
The other Gold, the millionaire. 
" Flow's this," cried Gold, 
" That Love's so bold, — 
A pirate on the coast, 
Where wealthy I 
Have sovereignty, 
As Beauty's fain to boast?" 
Love curled her handsome lip with pride, 
Said Gold was base, and basely lied, 
To which quoth Gold, " she can't endure 
The beggar Love — the boy is poor." 
Friends interposed, the duel stay'd, 
Wisely advising, " try the maid," 
So bending low in Beauty's bower 
Each ply'd their art with all their power. 

Love lit the beacons of his eyes, 

And Beauty blushed for joy ; 
Love whispered burning words and sighs, 

Then Beauty kissed the boy. 
"Ah, Love," said she, " come weal or woe, 



12 JANE ROWLEY S 

With you alone through life I go." 

The graceful youth 

Believed it truth, 
And came out gay and bold. 

"Now, sir, advance," 

With haughty glance 
He said to scornful Gold ; 
Love's yellow rival bent his knee 
To Beauty with a pedigree, 
A casket, carriage, lackeys tall, 
Soiree and rout, and frequent ball. 
"Oh ! dear Gold," false Beauty cried, 
" I'll jilt fond Love, and be your bride." 
Gold tied the knot, Love left the shore, 
Now Love and Beauty meet no more. 



A THOUGHT. 

I've seen at early morning's hour, 
The dew-drop sparkle on the flower, 
And marked the sun-beam o'er it play, 
Then steal it to the skies away. 
And thus I've thought is pity's tear, 
Shed by us erring mortals here, — 
But snatched by heaven and treasured there 
With Faith, and Hope, and Love, and Prayer. 

J. F. Clark. 



SCRAP BOOK. 13 

THE MAN I LOVE. 

I love an open countenance, 

A kind and noble face, — 
The index of an honest heart 

That loves the human race ! 
A brow on which a smile is thron'd 

Like sunlight on a flower, 
As open as the regal skies 

With beams of love and power ! 

I love the kind and welcome glance 

That pi"oves we're not alone ; 
And oh ! how sweet at times to find 

Some feelings like our own ! 
A heart that beats with purest hopes, 

To pity and to bless ; 
That strives to make earth's comforts more — 

Its pains and follies less ! 

I love the man whose generous smile 

Is given with his hand, 
Who sees his equal in all men, 

And all men equal stand ! 
Who sees not the distinction made 

By human laws between, 
The man who has, and who has not, 

But loves from what he's seen. 



14 JANE ROWLEYS 

I love the man whose heart is true, 

Who seldom wears a frown, 
And loves all men, from him who toils 

To him who wears a crown ! 
With mildness ever on his lip, 

A free and open mind, — 
A mind with mental grandeur span'd, 

A soul supremely kind. 



BENEVOLENCE. 

We should never in any way consent to the ill treat- 
ment of animals, because the fear of ridicule or some other 
fear, prevents our interfering. As to there being any- 
thing really trifling in any act of humanity, however 
slight, it is moral blindness to suppose so. The few 
moments in the course of each day, which a man absorbs 
in some worldly pursuit, may be carefully expended in 
kind words or trifling charities to those around him, and 
kindness to animals is one of them, are perhaps, in the 
sight of heaven, the only time he has lived worthy of re- 
cording. 



He who first arouses in the bondsman the sense and 
soul of freedom, comes as near as is permitted to man — 
nearer than the philosopher, nearer than the poet — to 
the great attributes of God. 



SCRAP BOOK. 15 

LONG YEARS HAVE PASSED. 

BY THOMAS MORE. 

Long- 3'ears have passed, old friend, since we 

First met in life's young day ; 
And friends long loved by thee and me 

Since then have pass'd away ; 
But enough remains to cheer us on, 

And sweeten when thus we're met, 
The glass we fill to the many gone, 

And the few who're left us yet. 

Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, 

And some hang white and chill ; 
While some like flow'rs 'mid autumn's snow. 

Retain youth's color yet. 
And so in our hearts, thoughts one by one, 

Youth's sunny hopes have set ; 
Thank heaven, not all their light is gone, — 

We've some to cheer us yet. 

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long 

May thou and I thus meet 
To brighten still with wine and song, 

This short life, ere it fleet. 
And still, as death comes stealing on, 

Let's never, old friend forget, 
E'en though we sigh o'er blessings gone, 

ITow many are left us yet. 



1 6 jane rowley's 

MORN'S OFFERING. 

The prize of the golden violet, for the six verses on a botanical sub- 
ject, has, at length been awarded, by a committee appointed at the Feite 
Champetre, on the 20th June, to the author of the effusion having the 
above title, and signed " Francis." The fortunate competitor for the 
second prize (a book) is the writer whose real name is disguised under 
the fancitul signature — "I wish I may get it." Of the pieces whose 
poetical merit the Committee considered of a high order, are those signed 
" Mary," " M," " Alonzo," " E. L. L." and "K." The second prize will 
when received, be forwarded to the winner. The following is the prize 
poem: 

As night stole away from a wild flowery nook, 
And morning awaking, her dewy wings shook, 

A low silver sound 

Was heard all around ; 

Each leaflet and cup 

In rapture sent up 
Its devotion and love, on the wings of the morn, 
And their incense to God was triumphantly borne. 

The Rose sent her blushes, all tearful with dew, 
The Pansy, sweet thought, ever changeful and new 

The Poppy its bloom, 

Sweetbriar its perfume, 

The Hawthorne sent showers 

Of sweet-scented flowers, 
And the Daisy its modesty flinging o'er morn, 
It seem'd e'en her glittering charms to adorn. 



SCRAP BOOK. 17 

The Bramble, the moral its pointed thorns teach, 

You must all feel their touch, ere its fruits you may reach. 

And from a moss bed 

Just raising its head, 

The lone, the forsaken 

Sweet Primrose awaking, 
Sighed, " Bear on thy wings to the regions of bliss, 
The love of a heart that is slighted in this." 

The Broom sent the grace that each motion betrays. 
As the kiss of the wind every golden bough sways ; 

The Woodbine spread wide 

Its proud arms and cried, — 

Bear, bear on thy wing 

To the heavenly king, 
The fond clinging love, — the rich aspirations 
Of a heart that is, — that is breaking in this. 

The Harebell its meekness and purity threw, 

And its colors to blend with the heavens, own blue. 

Forget-me-not flung 

Those offerings among 

Remembrances soft — 

To be borne up aloft, 
To that home in the skies, in whose heavenly bowers, 
Morn pours out the incense of sweet welding flowers. 

And think you the giver of life and of light, 

In the realms of the blessed, the pure and the bright. 



1 8 jane rowley's 

Regards not the sweets, 

The balmy air greets, 

From garden and dell, 

"Where gay flowers dwell ? 
Yes, yes ! to his throne is triumphantly borne 
The incense of flowers on the wings of the morn. 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 

It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, 
that when the heai"t is touched and softened by some tran- 
quil happiness or affectionate feeling, the memory of the 
dead comes over it most powerfully and irresistibly. . 
It would almost seem as though our better thoughts and 
sympathies were charms in virtue of which the soul is 
enabled to hold some vague and mysteriotis intercourse 
with the spirits of those whom we love dearly in life. 
Alas ! how often and how long may those patient angels 
hover over us, watching for the spell which is so seldom 
uttered and so soon forgotten. 



A worthy Baronet of Erin's clime had a famed 
telescope in his possession, and on a time, of its en- 
gagingpowers he made profession. "Your church," cried 
he, "is distant near a mile, yet when I view it steady for a 
while, upon a bright and sunny day, my glass so strong 
and clear, does bring the church so near that I can hear 
the organ play." 



SCRAP BOOK. 19 

WOMAN'S LOVE. 

The beautiful girl a chaplet wove, 

Of violets, heart's-ease and rose, 
And she called it an emblem of woman's love, 

But her specimens all were untrue. 

The rose that blushes to each man's sigh, 

That bloosoms yet blooms as before, 
Is no emblem of that which can never die, 

Or dying can bloom no more. 

The modest violet simple and pure, 

But she who like it can impart 
Her sweetness to all around her, be sure 

Love never has touched her heart. 

And heart's-ease, why the very name's a spell, 

Love has doubly vowdly to break, 
Look upon her who has loved and tell 

The tale that you read on her cheek. 

And rose ! oh, she knew as little of love, 

Who could fancy an emblem in this, 
Whoever has felt its pangs and would prove 

In exchange any earthly bliss. 

No, give me the lofty and lone aloe, 

Scarce known to our northern skies ; 
That, that is like woman's love, for oh ! 

It blossoms but once and dies. 



20 JANE ROWLEYS 

IT SPOILS A MAN TO MARRY HIM. 

Believe, dear girls, this maxim true, 
In precept and in practice, too, 

That it spoils a man to marry him : 
The creature never ought to go 
Beyond a honeymoon or so ; 
If they survive that, they will show 
That it spoils a man to marry him. 
When first he kneels before your feet, 
How soft his words ! his looks so sweet ! 

But it spoils a man to marry him : 

When once a late consent he'll wring 
And get your finger in the ring, 
Oh ! then he's quite another thing. 
It spoils a man to marry him. 

Have you a fancy? you must drop it, 
A will it may be ? you must lop it 

Before you think of marrying. 
And even if you venture then, 
Select the very worst of men ; 
If not, nine chances out often 
'Twill spoil the wretch to marry him. 
Now lady fair, I must tell you 
For fear that you might chance to rue, 

Don't please the wretch to marry him. 



SCRAP BOOK. 21 



But, lady fair, should this offend, 
Just please yourself, for in the end 
Perhaps he'll prove a trusty friend, 
Then love the lad and marry him. 



BEAUTY. 
Oh ! what a pure and sacred thing 

Is beauty curtained from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 

One only mansion with its light. 
Unseen by man's disturbing eye, 

The flower that blooms beneath the sea 
Too deep for sun-beams, doth not lie 

Hid in more chaste obscurity. 



STANZA. 



BY ROBERT GILFILLAN. 

On hearing a lady sing an Irish melody. 

Louise ! Louise ! what strains are these 
That fall upon mine ear the while? 

'Tis music's voice, and thine own choice 
Sweet breathing from the Emerald Isle ! 

There is a land that all men claim, 

Where'er the spot on rounded earth — 

Whate'er the clime, whate'er the name — 
Land of our fathers and our birth. 



22 jane rowley's 

Old England has its vales of green, 
And Scotland has its woods of pine ; 

And, fair Louise ! thy songs, I ween, 
Tell that loved Erin's land is thine. 

I love the Isle from whence thou'rt sprung, 
Land of the brave, the kind, the free : 

Where harps high-toned, by minstrels strung 
Have waked their sweetest melody ! 

Thy sires, Louise ! in lordly halls 
Held sway, — on the battle plain 

Show'd deeds, which thy song recalls 
We hope may not return again. 

Too much of blood — too much of war 
Hath England, Erin, Scotland seen : — 

This had been one bright scene below 
Had man to man as brother been. 

We seek not fame that still is ours, 

For high in thought, and bold in hand, 

Have stood our sires, with giant powers, 
The guardians of our fatherland ! 

But give us peace, and give us love, — 
The rose, the thistle, shamrock green — 

United thus like stars above, 

Each in his track shall bright be seen. 



SCRAP BOOK. 23 

Fair lady ! wake thy song again, 

Thee and its strains the bard adores ; 

' Tis Erin's voice across the main, 
Soft sounding on our Scottish shore. 



SONNETS. 

BY C. B. WYATT. 
NIGHT. 

Dear hours of night ! how many a soul confined 
In daily bonds awaits thy still return, — 

Whether it longs o'er cherished griefs to mourn, 

From which with jealous care it wish to blind 

Familiar gaze, or, free as rushing winds 
Burst from ^Eolian cavenis, wanders o'er 
Hope's airy realms, or memory's far offshore, 

Now soaring, pausing now : for night is kind 
To raptures such as these, and oft I wean 

Hath she beheld the solitary tear 

Hid from day's gaudy eye, in secret seen 

The heart revealed, or the perception clear 

Brought back the look of kindness that has been, 

And distant voices to the dreaming ear. 



Little minds rejoice over the errors of men of genius, 
as the owl rejoices at an eclipse. 



24 JANE ROWLEYS 



WHAT IS LOVE? 



Is love a mere passion, an excitement? Is it not rather 
a mystic affinity existing in kindred minds, latent, per- 
haps, till circumstances bring them within the sphere of 
its mysterious agency? Is the beautiful apologue all fable, 
that the souls of those individuals of either sex, intended 
for each other, receive at their formation the impress of 
their destiny, however widely separated at their birth, 
and know and recognize each other. God forbid. 



Retrospection. — When the veil of death has been 
drawn between us and the objects of our regard, how 
quick-sighted we become to their merits, and how bitterly 
do we then remember words or looks of unkindness which 
may have escaped us in our intercourse with them. How 
careful should such thoughts render us in the fulfillment 
of those offices of affection, which it maybe in our power 
to perform, for who can tell how soon the moment may 
arrive when repentance cannot be followed by reparation. 



Foul jealousy ! that turnest love divine to joyless 
dread, or makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts 
to languish and to pine. And feed itself with self- 
consuming smart. Of all the passions of the mind 
thou vilest art. — Spencer. 



SCRAP BOOK. 25 

Woe to him that removeth the ancient land-mark, 

For a serpent shall sting him. 

Woe to him that increases that which is not his, 

And establishes bis house with blood ! 

Woe to him that dealeth treacherously, 

For when he shall make an end of dealing treacherously, 

Others shall deal treacherously by him ! 



I LOVE HER, HOW I LOVE HER. 

I love her, how I love her, 
Tho' mine, alas ! . she ne'er can be, 
The sun that shines above her, 
Is far less bright to me ; 
Tho' time by tears I measure, 
I prize my fatal treasure, 
And find a fatal pleasure 
In suffering sweet for thee. 

I love her, how I love her. 

Deep, deep in my bosom concealing, 
The fierce flame, the flame that consumes me, 
Ne'er, ne'er e'er to thee shall my lips reveal 
All the woes I feel ; the voice of honor I obey, 
It speaks in friendship's sacred name, 
And to my heart alone I say, — 
I love her, how I love her. 



26 jane rowley's 

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty side by side, 
They fill'd one house with glee. 

Their graves are scattered far and wide, 
By mount, by stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night, 
O'er each fair sleeper's brow ; 

She had each flower in her sight, — 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One midst the forest of the west, 

By a dark stream is laid, 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the lone blue sea has one, 
He lies where pearls lie deep, 

He was the lov'd of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colors round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one o'er her the myrtle showers, 
Its leaves by soft winds fann'd, 

She faded midst Italian bowers, 
The last of that bright land. 



SCRAP BOOK. 27 

And parted thus the rest, who played, 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee. 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth, — 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 

And nought beyond, oh earth ! — Hemans. 



THE MARINER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SHIP. 

Farewell to thee, my gallant ship, thy race is run at last, 
Thy timbers o'er the troubled waves in wild confusion 

cast ; 
Ah ! never more I'll see thee in thy lovliness and pride, 
Bound boldly o'er the billows, or dash the surf aside. 

Oh ! to see thee in thy beauty, careering through the 

deep, 
While laughing waters round thy prow in gladness doth 

leap ; 
Thy snowy sails, thy stately spars, thy streamers flashing 

free, 
I did not think that fate could harm so fair a thing as 

thee. 



28 jane rowley's 

" Thou lookest so like a thing of life," I never dreamt 

the wave, 
Whose offspring thou didst seem to be, would prove at 

last thy grave. 
Full many a steep and stormy sea thou'st swept in triumph 

o'er, 
But now, alas ! my fearless ship, thou'll brave the waves 

no more. 

No more I'll tread thy slippery deck, or climb thy 

haughty mast, 
Which scarcely deigned to bend before the breeze that 

galloped past, 
Thou liest with a winding sheet of foam encircling round, 
Thy dirge the whistling tempest, or the surges' sullen 

sound. 

My early friends have passed away, my only love is laid 
In sorrow and in silence, beneath the willow shade ; 
Thou wast the sole remaining thing that I could call my 

own, 
Thou too art gone, and I am left upon the world alone. 



TO THE VIOLET. 

Oh ! would sweet flower that I might be 
Destined to live in shade like thee, 
Seen but by few and known to none, 



SCRAP BOOK. 29 

Save those that seek me as their own, — 

To bloom upon my native ground 

With those I love encircling round, 

To be a harbinger of spring, 

A lovely yet a fragile thing, 

And when I die, sweet flower to be 

Still loved for purity, — like thee. 



SONG. 

If after all thou still will doubt and fear me, 

And think this heart to other loves will stray ; 

If I must swear then lovely doubter hear me, 

By every dream I have when thou'rt away, 

By every throb I feel when thou art near me, 

I love but thee — I love but thee. 

By those dark eyes where light is ever playing, 

Where love in depths of shadow holds his throne ; 

And by those lips which give what'er thou'rt saying, 

Or grave or gay a music of its own, 

A music far beyond all minstrels playing, — 

I love but thee — I love but thee. 

By that fair brow where innocence reposes, 

As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow ; 

And by that cheek whose fleeting blush discloses 

A hue too bright to bless this world below, 

And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses, 

I love but thee — I love but thee. 



30 JANE ROWLEYS 

"PAPA, WHAT IS A NEWSPAPER, AND WHAT 
DOES IT CONTAIN?" 

Organs, that means play, my boy, 
To answer the taste of the day, 

Whatever it be, 

The hit on the hey, 
And pipe in full chorus, away, my boy- 
News from all countries and climes, 
Advertisements, essays and rhymes. 

Mixed up with all sorts 

Of (f) lying retorts, 
And published at regular times. 

Articles able and wise, 

At least in the editor's eyes, 

And logic so grand, 

That few understand 
To what in the world it applies. 

Statistics, reflections, reviews, 
Little scraps to instruct and amuse, 

And lengthy debate 

Upon matters of State, 
For wise-headed folks to peruse. 

The funds as they were, as they are, 
The quibs and the quirks of the bar, 



SCRAP BOOK. 

And every week 
A clever critique 
On some clever theatrical star. 

The age of Jupiter's moons, 

The stealing of somebody's spoons, 

The state of the crops, 

The style of the sops, 
And the wit of the public buffoon. 

List of all physical ills, 
Banished by somebody's pills, 

Till you ask with surprise, 

Why any one dies, 
Or what's the disorder that kills? 

Who has got married, to whom, — 
Who were cut off in their bloom, 

Who has had birth 

On this sorrow-stained earth, 
And who totters fast to the tomb ? 

The price of cattle and grain, 
Directions to dig and to drain ; 

But 'twould take me too long 

To tell you in song 
A quarter of all they contain. 



32 JANE ROWLEY S 

THE CANTEEN. 

BY PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY. 

There are bonds of all sorts in this world of ours, 
Fetters of friendship, and ties of flowers, 

And true lovers' knots I ween ; 
The girl and the boy ai'e bound by a kiss, 
But there's never a bond, old friend, like this — 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

It was sometimes water, and sometimes milk, 
And sometimes apple-jack, fine as silk, 

But whatever the tiple has been, 
We shared it together in bane or bliss, 
And I warm to thee, friend, when I think of this — 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

The rich and the great sit down to dine, 

And they quaff to each other in sparkling wine, 

From glasses of crystal and green ; 
But I guess in their golden potations they miss 
The warmth of regard to be found in this, 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

We have shared our blanket and tent together, 

And have marched and fought in all kinds of weather, 

And hungry and full we have been ; 
Had days of battle and days of rest, 



SCRAP BOOK. 33 

But this memory I cling to and love the best, 
We have drank from the same canteen. 

For wounded I lay on the outer slope, 

With my blood flowing fast and but little hope 

Upon which my faint spirit could lean ; 
Oh, then, I remember, you crawled to my side, 
And bleeding so fast, it seemed both should have died, 

We drank from the same canteen. 



COURAGE IN WOMEN. 

There is a branch of general education which is not 
thought at all necessary for women, as regards which, 
indeed, it is well if they are not brought up to culti- 
vate the opposite. Women are not taught to be cour- 
ageous. Indeed to some persons courage may seem as 
unnecessary as Latin or Greek. Yet there are few 
things that would tend to make woman happier in 
themselves, and more acceptable to those with whom 
they live than courage. There are many women of 
the present day, sensible women in other things, whose 
panic terrors are a, frequent source of discomfort to them- 
selves and those around them. Now it is a great mis- 
take to imagine that hardness must go with courage! 
and that the bloom of gentleness and sympathy must 
all be rubbed oft' by that vapor of the mind. 



34 JANE ROWLEYS 

How noiselessly the snow comes down. You may- 
see it, but never hear it. It is true charity. Has any 
one wounded you with injuries ? Meet them with patience ; 
hasty words rankle the wound ; kindness dresses it, 
forgiveness cures it, and oblivion takes away the scar. 
Keep doing, always doing. Wishing, dreaming, in- 
tending, murmuring, talking, sighing, and repining are 
idle and profitless employments. Speak nothing but 
what may benefit others or yourself. Avoid trifling 
conversation. 



CULTIVATION OF WOMAN'S MIND. 

It is a wrong view of things to suppose that a just 
cultivation of woman's mental powers will take them 
out of their sphere. The most cultivated women per- 
form their common duties best. They see more in 
those duties. They can do more. Lady Jane Grey 
would, I dare say, have bound up a wound, or man- 
aged a household with any unlettered woman of her 
day. Queen Elizabeth did manage a kingdom, and we 
find no pedantry in her way of doing it. 



Not as the worldling bids farewell 
When earthly wishes bound his view, 
None but the Christian's tongue can tell, 
The fulness of that word, adieu. 



SCRAP BOOK. 35 

THE CIRCASSIAN SLAVE. 

A maiden young, with fair hair flowing, 

Scarce covered with a linen white, 
Lies amid other wares deep glowing, 

In the bazaar, exposed to sight. 

Not far from her, deep wrapt and sunken, 
And gazing on her youthful charms, 

A young man stands, his fond eye drunken, 
Uress'd as a slave, with folded arms. 

The broker cries, " Look here, ye buyers ! 

From Caucasus, a lovely child ; 
When saw ye eyes with brighter fires, 

A form more fair, a face so mild?" 

" From head to foot such beauties grace her, 

That were I of Algiers the Dey, 
In my seraglios list to place her 

Good twenty purses full I'd pay ! " 

So fair a form of alabaster, 

No Moslem house as yet can claim, 

"I offer fifty gold piasters!" 

A Bashaw cries, with eyes of flame. 

"I'll give sixty!" says an Emir, 

Whose heart beat high within his breast ; 
"An hundred!" says an Aga, "look here, 
I offer more than all the rest ! " 



36 jane rowley's 

"No!" an Effendi calls, "believe me, 

A hundred is too small a sum ; 
I will fifty more to have thee ; 

Thou'rt mine, young maiden, — rise and come !' 

"Not yet!" exclaims a Greek; "my masters, 
Those eyes as bright as the gazelle, 

Are worth two hundred gold piastres, 
That every one must know full well." 

"I bid four hundred golden pieces!" 
A Moscovite's loud voice proclaims ; 

" That price this maiden releases, 

So, bidders all, withdraw your claims ! " 

And with rude grasp the Russian taking, 
The young Circassian by the hands, 

See how that youth, as if awaking, 
Soon by her side in fury stands, 

And cries, "Not yet, O, Russian, hast thou 
Obtained this maiden as thy slave ! 

For know, a price for her I'll bid now 
Ten times as great as all you gave ! " 

The maiden joyous, but still fearful, 

Starts as she hears that well-loved tone ; 

No music e'er seemed half so cheerful, 
As sounds her lover's voice — her own ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 37 

But see with anger deeply burning, 

The Russian seize his yatagan, 
And cry, "your price?" in fury turning — 

"You tawny dog from Afghanistan!" 

"Her freedom!" thundered the Circassian, 
With eyes that flamed wild rage and hate ; 

And sudden paleness seized each other, 

Whose cheeks had burned and glowed of late. 

For see ! a poignard bright disclosing, 
He pierces through that virgin breast ; 

The maiden sinks, her bright eyes closing, 
Clasp'd in his arms, to endless rest. 

In vain each dagger bright now glances, 
No steel shall touch him but his own ; 

Long e'er that angry troop advances, 
Both souls in joy to heaven had flown. 



Woman's Influence. — "There is something to 
me," says Byron, "very softening in the presence of 
a woman, some strange influence, even if one is not 
in love with them. I always feel in a better humor 
with myself and everything else if there is a woman 
within ken." 



38 jane rowley's 

NOTHING IS LOST. 

Aside from its excellent moral, is not the following very musical and 
beautiful ? 

Nothing is lost, the drop of dew 

Which trembles on the leaf or flower, 
. Is but exhaled to fall anew 

In summer's thunder -shower ; 

Perchance to sparkle in the flow 
Of fountains far away. 

Nothing is lost, the tiniest seed 

By wild birds borne or breezes blown, 
Finds something suited to its need, 

Wherein 'tis sown and grown ; 
The language of some household song, 

The perfume of some cherished flower, 
Though gone from outward sense, belong 

To memory's after-hour. 

So with our words, or harsh, or kind, 

Uttered they are not all forgot ; 
They have their influence on the mind, 

Pass on but perish not. 
So with our deeds, or good, or ill, 

They have their power, scarce understood ; 
Then let us use our better will 

To make them rife with good. 



SCRAP BOOK. 39 

TO . 

Of all the flowers that sweetly blow, 

You ask which is most clear to me ; 
I love them best that native grow, 

And unassuming bloom like thee. 

And first I love the violet sweet, 

Content it blooms, though none may see 

The applausive gaze it does not seek, 
But hides its modest worth like thee. 

And the vale lily's virgin white, 

Its forms and emblems well agree, 
Tho' simply clothed it glads the sight, 

Though unobtrusive charms like thee. 

I love the wild forget-me-not, 

Where labor rests it does not flee, 
But grows aft the rustic's cot, 

And breathes contentment round like thee. 

I love the rose because its cheek 

Glows fresh with health and cheerful glee, 

Its tints the touch of beauty speak, 
'Tis beauty's favorite, 'tis thee. 

To number more were waste of time, 
In short whate'er their forms may be 



40 jane rowley's 

Whate'er their hues, whate'er their clime, 
I love them most when most like thee. 



The laws of politeness should be observed not only 
between intimate friends, but between members of the 
same family, and those households are most peace- 
ful and happy where the courtesies of good society are 
observed. There need not, and ought not to be for- 
mality ; but little attention between brothers and sisters, 
making mutual esteem, prevent that carelessness and 
hardness which is most apt to creep into the family, 
and which grow out of intimacy. It is good manners 
and consideration for each others feelings that prevents 
familiarity engendering contempt. 



ADAM'S SLEEP. 
He laid him down and slept, and from his side 
A woman in her magic beauty rose ; 
Dazzled and charmed he called that woman "bride," 
And his first sleep became his last repose. 



A friend that you have to buy wont be worth what 
you have to pay for him, no matter how little that may 
be. 

Leave your 'grievances, as Napoleon did his lettei-s, 
unopened for three weeks, and it is astonishing how few 
of them at that time will require answering. 



SCRAP BOOK. 41 

THE PARROT. 

The deep affections of the breast, 

That heaven to living things imparts, 

Are not exclusively possessed 
By human hearts. 

A parrot from the Spanish main, 

Full young and early caged came o'er, 

With bright wings to the bleak domain 
Of Mulla's shore. 

The spicy groves where he had won 

His plumage of resplendent hue, 
His native fruits, and skies, and sun, 

He bade adieu. 

For those he changed the smoke of turf, 

A heathry land and misty sky, 
And turn'd on rocks and raging surf, 

His golden eye. 

But, petted in our climate cold, 

He lived and chattered many a day ; 

Until with age, from green and gold, 
His wings grew grey. 

At last when blind and seeming dumb, 
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, 



42 JANE ROWLEYS 



A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
To Mulla's shore. 

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, 
The bird in Spanish speech replied, 

Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, 
Dropp'd down and died. 

This incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and as- 
sociation in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years 
ago in the Island of Mulla, from the family to whom the bird belonged. 
— Thomas Campbell. 



LINES WRITTEN UPON SEEING MULVANY'S 

PICTURE OF " FIRST LOVE," IN THE 

IRISH EXHIBITION OF PAINTINGS. 

BY ELIZABETH AUCHINLECK. 

Aye, gaze upon her face, impassioned boy, 
In its sweet bashfulness and timid joy ! 
Thine is a trustful homage, free from art, 
The earnest worship of an untaught heart ! 

Nought throughout after-life thy sight shall bless, 
One thousandth part so rich in loveliness, 
As that young peasant girl, so simply fair 
With her unsandled feet and braided hair. 



SCRAP BOOK. 43 

Boyhood will flee away — the time will come 
When for the haunts of men thou'lt leave thy home ; 
Yet oft will memory turn so fondly still 
To that companion dear, and lonely hill. 

And years will pass, till dim as some sweet dream, 
The vision of thy early years will seem ; 
But never, never, quite from out thy heart 
Will the lone echo of her voice depart. 

And thou may'st love again — aye, passionately, 
And past expression dear thy idol be ; 
But the first love of youth's a precious thing, 
A fragrant flower that knows no second spring ! 

Thus mused I as I gazed with spell-bound eyes, 
And blessed the "Art that could immortalize." 



TRUTH. 



Truth is the trial of itself, 
And needs no other touch, 

And purer than the purest gold, 
Refine it ne'er so much. 

It is the light and life of love, 
The sun that ever shineth, 

And spirit of that special grace, 
That faith and love defineth. 



44 JANE ROWLEY S 

It is the warrant of the word, 
That yields a scent so sweet, 

As gives a power to faith to tread 
All falsehood under feet. 

It is the word that doth divide 
" The marrow from the bone," 

And in effect of heavenly love 
Doth show the Holy One. 



Recreation. — Make thy recreation servant to thy 
business, lest thou become slave to thy recreation. When 
thou goest up into the mountain leave this servant in the 
valley. When thou goest to the city, leave him in the 
suburbs, and remember the servant must not be greater 
than the master. 



MARY MaCHREE. 



BY SAMUEL LOVER. 



The words of this beautiful song appeared in the last number but one 
of the Artist- Authors,' "L. S. D." The air to which they are wedded is 
plaintive and pathetic. 

The flower of the valley was Mary MaChree ; 

Her smiles all bewitching were lovely to see, 

The bees round her humming, when summer was gone, 

When the roses were fled might her lips take for one. 



SCRAP BOOK. 45 

Her laugh it was music, her breath it. was balm ; 
Her heart, like the lake, was as pu^e and as calm, 
Till love o'er her came, like a breeze o'er the sea, 
And made the heart heave of sweet Mary MaChree. 

She loved, and she wept; for when was gladness e'er 

known 
To dwell in the bosom that love made his own ? 
His joys are but moments, his griefs are for years ; 
He comes all in smiles and leaves all in tears ! 
Her lover was gone to a far distant land, 
And Mary in sadness would pace the lone strand, 
And tearfully gaze on the dark rolling sea 
That parted her soldier from Mary MaChree. 

To these is added another verse, by Mr. James Storehouse, of Liverpool. 

Oh ! pale grew her cheek when there came from afar, 

The tales of the battle, and tidings of war; 

Her eyes filled with tears, when the clouds gathered 

dark, 
For fancy would picture some tempest-tost bark ; 
But when winter came on and the deep woods were bare, 
In the hall was a voice, and a foot on the stair, 
Oh ! joy to the maiden, for o'er the deep sea, 
The soldier returned to his Mary MaChree. 



In character as in architecture, proportion is beauty. 



46 jane rowley's 

MY NATIVE LAND. 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land, 
Whose heart has ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he has turned, 

From wandering in a foreign land? 
If such there be go mark him well, 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his title, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power and pelf, 
The wretch concentrated all in self, 
Living shall forfeit fair renown, 
And doubly dying shall go down, 
To the vile grave from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 



How happily, how happily, the flowers die away, 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they, 
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, 
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. 



Every man has just as much vanity as he wants un- 
derstanding. 

Why is matrimony like a pair of snuffers ? 



SCRAP BOOK. 47 

THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 

'Tis night ! no eye is closed in sleep 

In lowly roof or lordly dome, 
Peals on the gale, with thundering sweep, 
The old cathedral through the gloom ; 
And like a torrent's overflow, 
Echo the thronging streets below. 

'Tis morn ! from battlement to ground 

All is a blaze of gold and steel ; 
Rings in the ear the trumpets sound, 
The trampling of the charger's heel ; 
The rushing tide, 
Imperial Paris in her pride. 

What wakes, proud city, your array ? 

What youthful king ascends the throne ? 
What sovereign beauty's bridal day? 

What battle gained? what kingdom won? 
Whom worship this high pomp of war? 
What son of glory's rising star? 

Be hushed ! let sad mortality, 

Tell the sad moral of his tale, 
Low in the dust, ye standards lie — 
Ye trumpets, breathe the funeral wail ; 
Weep, weep, ye brilliant and ye brave, 
'Tis but the trumpet of the grave. 



48 jane rowley's 

Now roars the gun with deeper roar, 
Out bursts the voice of multitudes ; 
Onward the glittering legions pour, 

There wave the banners steeped in blood, 
The sword that strewed the earth with slain, 
From Niomen's shores to swarthy Spain. 

But far along the dazzling line 

Napoleon comes ! that man of power ; 
A melancholy pomp is thine ! 

In vain o'er thee the garlands shower ; 

That conqueror needs nor trump or plume, 
His ear is cold, — his throne a tomb. 

This was the man of many a crown, 

Who filled the nations with his fame, 
Whose footstool saw the earth bow down — 
The voice of fate, the glance of flame, 
The fearful idol of the world, 
There lies he from his glory hurled. 

One hand withstood him to the last, 

One fearless, glorious friend of man ; 
Till o'er his wing her chain she cast, 
Till his starred diadem was wan ; 
Now from her distant dungeon cave, 
To France she gives him and the grave. 



SCRAP BOOK. 49 

SONG. 

BY MRS. HEMEXS. 

What woke the buried sound that lay, 

In Memnon's harp of yore ? 
What spirit on the viewless way, 

Along the Nile's green shore? 
Oh ! not the night, and not the storm, 

And not the lightning's fire ; 
But sunlight touch — the kind, the warm, 

This woke the mystic lyre, 

This, this awoke the lyre. 

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour, 

Their music forth on life, 
Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er 

The sounds of torrent strife ? 
Oh ! not the conflict mid'st the strong, 

Not e'en the trumpet's hour ; 
Love is the gifted and the strong, 

To wake that music's power, 

His breath awakes that power. 



HOME. 



Where burns the loved hearth brightest, 

Cheering the social breast? 
Where beats the fond heart lightest, 



50 jane rowley's 

Its humble hopes possessed ? 
Where is the smile of sadness, 

Of meek-eyed patience born, 
Worth more than those of gladness, 

Which mirth's bright cheeks adorn? 
Pleasure is marked by fleetness 

To those who ever roam, 
While grief itself has sweetness 

At home, dear home. 

There blend the tears that strengthen, 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visit when most brief ; 
Their eyes in all their splendor 

Are vocal to the heart, 
And glances gay and tender, 

Fresh eloquence impair ; 
Then dost thou sigh for pleasure, 

Oh ! do not wildly roam, 
But seek that hidden treasure 

At home, sweet home. 

Does pure religion charm thee, 
Far more than aught below ? 

Would'st thou that she should ai"m thee 
Against the hour of woe ? 



SCRAP BOOK. 51 



Think not she dwelleth only 

In temples made for prayer, 
For home itself were lonely 

Unless her smiles be there. 
The devotee may falter, 

The bigot blindly roam, 
If worshipless her altar 

At home, sweet home. 

Love over it presideth, 

With meek and watchful awe ; 
Its daily service guideth 

And shows its perfect law ; 
If there thy faith shall fail thee, 

If there no shrine be found, 
What can thy prayer avail thee 

With kneeling crowds around ? 
Go, leave thy gift unoffered 

Beneath religious dome, 
And be thy first fruits offered 

At home, dear home. 



Man and His Maker — They that deny God, de- 
stroy man's nobility ; for certainly man is of kin to the 
beasts by his body, and if he be not of kin to God by his 
spirit, he is an ignoble creature. 



52 jane rowley's 



BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 

Life is a race where some succeed, 

While others are beginning ; 
'Tis luck at times, at others speed, 

That gives an early winning ; 
But if you chance to fall behind, 

Ne'er slacken your endeavor, 
Just keep this wholesome truth in mind, 

'Tis better late than never. 

If you can keep ahead, 'tis well, 

But never trip your neighbor ; 
'Tis noble when you can excel, 

By honest, patient labor ; 
But if you are outstripped at best 

Press on as bold as ever, 
Remember, though you are surpassed, 

'Tis better late than never. 

Ne'er labor for an idle boast, 

Of victory o'er another, 
But, while you strive your uttermost, 

Deal fairly with a brother ; 
"Whate'er your station, do your best, 

And hold your purpose ever, 
And if you fail to beat the rest, 

'Tis better late than never. 



SCRAP BOOK. 53 

Choose well the path in which you run, 

Succeed by noble daring, 
Then, though the last, when once 'tis won 

Your crown is worth the wearing. 
Then never fret if left behind, 

Nor slacken your endeavor, 
But ever keep this truth in mind, 

'Tis better late than never. 



SONG. 



I stood amid the glittering throng, 

I heard a voice, its tones were sweet, 
I turned to see from whence it came, 

And gazed on all I wished to meet. 
She was a fair and gentle girl, 

Her meek eye greeted me by chance, 
I whispered low, I took her hand, 

I led, I led her forth to dance. 

We had but little space to move, 

So close, so closely all were drawn, 
But she was light of heart and step, 

And graceful, graceful as a fawn. 
A virgin flower gemm'd her hair, 

Her beauty to enhance, 
She was the flower of all that stood, 

In that close cottage dance. 



54 JANE ROWLEYS 

I've moved since then in princely halls, 

I tread them even now ; 
I hold in mine the hand of one 

With coroneted brow. 
And I may seem to heed her smile, 

And seem to court her glance, 
But my heart and thought still wander home, 

To that sweet cottage dance. 

Oft when I sleep a melody 

Comes stealing o'er my brain, 
And the light music of that night 

Is greeting me again. 
I take her small white hand in mine, 

Amid that blissful trance, 
And one more vision worth a world, 

I led her forth to dance. 



I tink he's been koom-hunting, I tink he's goot for kooms 
Cause tere's nothing else he's good for, under the stars 

and moon. 
Come here you tam vagabond — vereyou peen, eh? 
Oh ! mine noshe, you shmell vorse than one schunk, — I 

sweeps now mit ter proom 
For having to do not so pad people as schunks, if you 

runs away again, 
Me puts you in ter papers, and you ish ruined for ever. 



SCRAP BOOK. 55 

Little Things. — Springs are little things, but they 
are sources of large streams ; a helm is a little thing, but 
governs the course of a ship ; a bridle-bit is a little 
thing, but see its use and power ; nails and pegs are lit- 
tle things, but they hold the large parts of buildings to- 
gether ; a word, a look, a frown, all are little things, but 
powerful for good or evil. Think of this and mind the 
little things. Pay that little debt — 'tis promised; redeem 
it, if it is a shilling; hand it over. You know not what 
important events hangs upon it. Keep your word 
sacredly. Keep it to the children ; they will mark it 
sooner than any one else, and the effect will probably be 
as lasting: as life. Mind the little thing's. 



If a soul thou would'st redeem, 
And lead a lost one back to God, 
Would'st thou a guardian angel seem, 
To one who long in sin has trod ? 
Go kindly to him — take his hand 
With gentle words within your own, 
And by his side a brother stand, 
Till all the demon thou dethrone. 

Mrs. M. Savage. 

The first fresh love never dies wholly, it lives on 
through pain and disappointment ; often when the heart 
is crushed and all its sympathies pressed out, this 
lingers and awakes, and shines bright. 



56 jane rowley's 

A WISH. 

Oh ! give me the ocean's boundless plain, 

And a barque to plough its wild, wild waves, 

Give me the mirth of the trackless main, 

As it roars in might through its hollow caves. 

And give me the voice of the viewless breeze, 

To whistle its song through my white swelling sails, 

And play in its glee o'er the billowy seas, 
Alternate the sport and the prey of its gales. 

Give me the star-studded diademed night, 

With its myriad of glories unveiled to the view, 

Or the mild maiden moon, with her silvery face, 
Shining forth from a canopied curtain of blue. 

And give me the freedom to ramble and roam, 
And visit each region of sun or of snow ; 

The world for my country, my barque for my home, 
Heaven's high arch above me, the ocean below. 



Flowers that bloom to wither fast, 
Light whose beams are soon o'ercast, 
Friendship warm, but not to last, 

Such by earth are given. 
Seek the flowers that ne'er shall fade, 
Find the light no cloud can shade, 

Those are found in heaven. 



SCRAP BOOK. 57 

" FARE THEE WELL, AND IF FOR EVER." 

BY LORD BYRON. 

'Tis done, and shivering in the gale, 
The bai'k unfurls her snowy sails, 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the freshening blast, 
And I must from this land begone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But would I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen, — 
Could I repose upon that breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest, 
I should not seek another zone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'lis long since I beheld that eye, 
That gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven but in vain 
Never to think of it again ; 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around and cannot trace 
One welcome smile or friendly face ; 



58 jane rowley's 

And even in crowds I'm still alone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign home, 
Till I forget a false, fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
But ever love and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth, 
Still finds some hospitable heart, 
Where friendship, or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe. 
But friend or lover I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go, but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There's not an eye will weep for me, 
There's not a kind, congenial heart 
Where I could claim the meanest part , 
Nor thou who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think on every early scene, 
On what we are, and what we've been — 
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe 
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow, 



SCRAP BOOK. 59 

Yet still beats on as it begun, 
And never truly loved but one. 

And who that dear, loved one may be, 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see ; — 
And why that love was early crossed, 
Thou knowest the best, — I feel the most. 
But few that live beneath the sun, 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I've tried another's fetters, too, 
With charms perchance as fair to view, 
And I would fain have loved as well,— 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding heart to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep, 
Tho' wheresoe'er my barque may roam, 
I love but thee, I love but one. 



Home. — Keep your store of smiles and your kindest 
feelings for home ; give to the world only those you have 
to spare. 



6o jane rowley's 

FROM MOORE'S SACRED SONGS. 
The bird let loose in eastern skies, 

When hastening fondly home, 
Nor stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam ; 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low degree, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant, my God ! from every care 

And stain of fashion free, 
Aloft through virtue's purest air, 

To hold my course to thee ; 
No cloud to dim, no lure to stay 

My soul as home she springs, 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wing. 



Modesty is not only an ornament, but also a guard to 
virtue. It is a kind of quick and delicate feeling into the 
soul, which makes her shrink and withdraw herself from 
everything that has danger in it. Is is such an exquisite 
sensibility, as warns her to shun the first appearance of 
everything which is hurtful. 



True bravery is as far removed from recklessness as 
it is from timidity. 



SCRAP BOOK. 6\ 

THE NIGHT WALKER. 

BY FRANK FOXCROFT. 

In the prisoners' dock she stands, 

Hardly eighteen years, 
Bringing more than full measure of toiling and tears 
With her young life seen ; 
But of woes I ween, 
A century's time, 

Could scarce contain 
Her record of crime 
And want and pain. 

In the prisoners' dock she stands ; — 

Sneer at her, 

Jeer at her, 
Ye of the soft white hands ! 

Laugh at her, 

Scoff at her, 
Ye of the titles and lands ! 

Pity? no bit of it, 

Mercy ? no whit of it. 

Take her away, 

Out of the day, 

Out of the light, 
Into the dark of the prison night. 



6 2 jane rowley's 

But where is the man who betrayed her? 

Is no guile his? 
Where is the man who hath made her 
Such as she is? 
Go to the haunts of fashion, 

To the very uppermost "ten," 
Where the puppets of folly and passion, 

Are made to appear like men. 
In the very innermost regions 

Of that most hallowed place, 
Surrounded by ladies in legions, 
Admiring his style and his grace. 
You will find the man 
Under heaven's ban, 
Though he be not under the laws of man. 

Ah, well ! ah, well ! there's another bar, 

In a higher and better land, 
And mercy and justice mingled are 
In God's own strong right hand, 
And when betrayed and betrayer meet, 

As meet they must, 
Before that common judgment seat, 
God will be just. 

Pittsfield, Mass., 1868. 



SCRAP BOOK. 63 

WOMAN: -A DIALOGUE. 

HE. 

Like the moon is woman's heart, 

Still with borrowed lustre shining ; 
Like the ivy, woman's love, 

Where it fastens undermining ; 
Like a rock you may defy, 

Truth to shake or reason move her, 
Like the rainbow in the sky, 

Smiling: when the storm is over. 



Woman's love is like a rock, 

Firm it stands though storms surround it, 
Like the ivy on the oak, 

Even in ruin clinging round it ; 
Like the moon dispelling night, 

Woman's smiles illumine sorrow ; 
Like the rainbow's pledge of light 

Harbinger of joy to-morrow. 



Shrinking from the wintry blast, 
Bird of passage, like the swallow, 

When the sunny season's past, 

Woman's love will quickly follow. 



64 jane rowley's 

she. 
Like the swallow, when she's seen, 

Pleasure's blossoms never wither, 
Herald of a sky serene, 

Woman brings the summer with her. 

HE. 

Like the roses of the brake 

Thorns in every blossom shrouded ; 

Like the bosom of the lake, 

By each passing shadow clouded. 

SHE. 

Like the roses of the brake, 

Precious tho' their bloom be faded ; 

Like the bosom of the lake 
By reflected darkness shaded. 

HE. 

Like a picture where you find 

Truth's and nature's fair resemblance, 

So deceitful woman's mind 

Mocks me with their mimic semblance. 



Like a picture truly fine, 

Half her beauty distance covers ; 



SCRAP BOOK. 6^ 



Touches of a hand divine, 
Every nearer view discovers. 



Like the reckless mountain tide, 
Every breeze the surface changing 

Like the bird that must be tied 
If you would prevent its ranging. 

SHE 

Like the stream upon the hill, 
Unconfined it runs the purer, 

Like the bird a cage will kill, 

But kindness win, and love secure her. 

HE 

Like the harp of Erin's sighs, 

Woman wakes the soul to madness, 

Wild and doubtful in its joy, 
Fatal in its dangerous sadness. 

SHE. 

Like my country's minstrel lyre, 
Waking many a wild emotion, 

Kindling in the breast a fire 

Of heavenly, heartfelt, pure devotion. 



66 jane rowley's 



Like the sun who sheds his light 
On the fool and wise in common ; 

Undistinguishingly bright, 

Is the smile of faithless woman. 

SHE. 

Like the sun dispersing light, 
Life and joy on all that's human, 

Ever warm and fixed and bright, 
Is the love of faithful woman. 



Friendship. — Friendship hath the skill and observa- 
tion of the best physician ; the diligence and vigilance of 
the best nurse ; and the tenderness and patience of the 
best mother. 



How sacred, how beautiful is the feeling of affec- 
tion in pure and guileless bosoms ! The proud may 
sneer at it ; the fashionable may call it fable ; the sel- 
fish and dissipated may effect to despise it ; but the 
holy passion is surely of heaven, and is made evil by 
the corruptions of those whom it was to bless and 
presei've. 



SCRAP BOOK. 6 J 

SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

Up from the south at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted earth with a shudder bore 
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war, 

Thundered along the horizon's bar, 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled, 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that firey play, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway, leading down ; 

And there, through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed, as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight, — 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 



68 



JANE ROWLEYS 



Still sprung from those swift hoofs thundering south, 

The dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, 

Forboding to traitor the doom of disaster ; 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master, 

Were beating like prisoners assailing their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet the road, 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
And the landscape sped away behind, 
Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
And the steed like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire, 
But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire — 
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first the general saw was the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the returning troops ; — 

What was done — what to do — a glance told him both ; 

Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the lines with a storm of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat stopped its course there because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was grey ; 



SCRAP BOOK. 69 

By the flash of his eye and his red nostril's play, 
Pie seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Sheridan ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for horse and man ! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldiers' temple of fame, 

There with the glorious general's name, 

Be it said in letters both bold and bright, — 

" Here the steed that saved the day, 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 

From Winchester, — twenty miles away." 



SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

BY MRS. L. A. COBB. 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful ! 

By the way-side let them fall, 
That the rose may spring by the cottage gate, 

And the vine on the garden wall ; 
Cover the rough and the rude of earth 

With a veil of leaves and flowers, 
And mark with the opening bud and cup 

The march of summer hours. 



*JO JANE ROWLEYS 

Scatter green germs of the beautiful 

In the holy shrine of home ; 
Let the pure and the fair, and the graceful there, 

In their loveliest lustre come ; 
Leave not a trace of deformity 

In the temple of the heart, 
But gather about its hearth the gems 

Of nature and of art. 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 

In the temple of our God, — 
The God who starred the uplifted sky, 

And flowered the trampled sod ; 
When He built a temple for Himself, 

And a home for His princely race, 
He reared each arch in symmetry, 

And curved each line in grace. 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 

In the depths of the human soul ; 
They shall bud, and blossom and bear the fruit, 

While the endless ages roll ; 
Plant with the flowers of charity 

The portals of the tomb, 
And the fair and the pure about your path, 

In paradise shall bloom. 



SCRAP BOOK. 7l 

A vSTREET ARAB. 

BY N. G. SHEPHERD. 

Ragged the jacket and trowsers he wears, 

Ragged the shoes on his feet ; 
For shoe or jacket little he cares, 

This Arab of the street. 
" Pitching pennies" here in the park, 

Along with a busy crowd, 
All of them ragged and dirty like him, 

Wrangling and shouting aloud. 

I wonder whether he has a home ? 

This ragged urchin, and how 
He earns the coppers he's tossing there 

With those other Arabs now ? 
If mother, or brother, or sister has he ? 

If ever a father he knew ? 
If he sleeps in a bed like you and me, 

And eats as the rest of us do ? 

Scarcely human he seems, somehow, 

With his semi-savage shout, 
As he gives each nickel a curious toss, 

And capers wildly about. 
Yet the same God made him that made us all, 

The God that dwells above, 



72 jane Rowley's 

Who watches even the sparrows fall, 
In the fulness of His love. 

All at once, as twelve o'clock draws near, 

Our Arab leaves his play, 
Gathers together what nickels are his 

And suddenly darts away. 
A moment more and his shrill voice sounds, 

Shouting the news in the street, 
With fifty more like a pack of hounds, 

Following close at his feet. 

In and out of the cars he springs, 

He heeds neither hoofs nor wheels. 
His ragged feet seems gifted with wings, 

Like famous Mercury's heels ; 
Now he stops a moment a paper to sell 

To some one passing by, 
Then away he goes on a rapid run, 

With a wild halloo and cry. 

High up past the dizzy roofs his voice 

Ascends on its skyward way, 
A moving shadow he flits along 

In the gai-ish light of day. 
'Twixt the rows of buildings on either side, 

With their windows starinsr down 



SCRAP BOOK. 73 

Like so many giants, Argus-eyed, 
Sleeplessly watching the town. 

I wonder if ever in thought he sees, 

The rows of buildings fade ! 
If ever in fancy he conjures up 

The desert without a shade ? 
If ever, winding before his sight 

Long caravans appear? 
If the Bedouin chiefs of the sands he sees 

In himself and those others here ? 

For to me, to-day as I stand in the park, 

Watching them here as they play, 
Like a bright mirage in the distance seen, 

Seem the buildings on Broadway. 



WOMAN. 



No star in yonder sky that shines, 

Can light like woman's eye impart ; 
The earth holds not in all its mines 

A gem so rich as woman's heart ; 
Her voice is like the music sweet 

Poured out from airy harps alone ; 
Like that when storms more loudly beat, 

It yields a clearer, richer tone. 



74 jane Rowley's 

And woman's love's a holy light, 

That brighter, brighter burns for aye ; 
Years cannot dim its radiance bright, 

Nor even falsehood quench its ray ; 
But like the star of Bethlehem 

Of old, to Israel's shepherds given, 
It marshals with its steady flame 

The erring soul of man to heaven. 

William Leggitt. 

A holy life is made up of a number of small things. 
Little words, not eloquent speeches or sermons. Little 
deeds, nor miracles, nor battles, nor one great, heroic 
act, nor mighty martyrdom, make up the true Christian 
life. The little constant sun-beam, not the lightning. 
The waters of Siloam, " that go softly" in their meek 
mission of refreshment, not the " waters of the river great 
and many," rushing down in torrents, noise and force, 
are the true symbols of a holy life. The avoidance of 
little evils, little sins, little inconsistencies, little 
weaknesses, little follies, little indiscretions and 
imprudences ; little foibles, little indulgences of self and 
of the flesh : — the avoidance of such little things as these 
goes far at least to make up the negative beauty of life. 



Who stabs my name, would stab my person, too, 
Did not the hangman's axe lie in the way. — Crown. 



SCRAP BOOK. 75 

AFFECTION. 

There is in life no blessing like affection. 

It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues, 

And bringeth down to earth its native heaven ; 

It sits beside the cradle patient hours, 

Whose sole contentment is to watch and love ; 

It bendeth o'er the death-bed and consoles 

Its own despair with words of faith and hope. 

Life hath nought else that may supply its place ; 

Cold is ambition, cold is vanity, 

And wealth an empty glitter, without love. 

Aliss Landon. 



" TURN OUT." 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER. 

'Mid the hurry and the strife, 
As you run the race of life, 

Never put your friend to rout ; 
Never trample on your neighbor ,- 
Though it cost a little labor, 

Just " turn out." 

It may go against the grain, 
It may give a little pain, 
If you put it to the test ; 



76 jane Rowley's 

But you'll find the pain but slight, 
Pass him gently to the right 
It is best. 

Remember that he too 

May have kind thoughts toward you ; 

And if he should nothing loath, 
To resolve to turn aside, 
Then the margin will be wide 

For you both. 

Run and let run, sir, to you 
As a maxim may be new, 

And a trivial one, no doubt ; 
But 'twould save a world of woe, 
If we all, for friend or foe, 

Would " turn out." 



It is the gift of poetry to hallow every place in 
which it moves ; to breathe round nature an odor more 
exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed 
over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 



The advantage of living does not consist in length 
of days, but in the right improvement of time. As 
many days as we pass without doing some good, are 
so many days entirely lost. 



SCRAP BOOK. 77 

THE CHORAL WORKMAN'S SONG. 

On the opening of the Amsterdam exhibition, at the close of King 
Henry's inaugural speech, the folding doors into the nave of the building 
were thrown open, and as Prince Henry and his attendants passed through, 
a thousand voices burst into the " Choral Workman's Song." The fol- 
lowing translation of it is given by Mr. Thurlow, the second secretary to 
her Majesty's Legation at the Hague, in his report upon the Netherlands. 

No monster of iron on gunpowder fed, 
No clangor of steel, no whizzing of lead 

Makes the blood in our arteries tingle ; 
But the whirl of the wheel, and the whistle of steam, 
And the bubbling hiss of the seething stream, 

Is the sound where our sympathies mingle. 

No laurel that drips with the bloom of the brave, 
No crown that hangs over the conqueror's grave, 

No wreath that is woven in weeping ; 
The olive that circles the forehead of toil, 
The meed of the master of metal and soil, 

Is the fruit that we glory in reaping. 

Oh ! the rush and the roar of the fiery steam ! 

Oh ! the rush and the shriek of the bursting steam ! 

No warrior's clarion is louder. 
We, too, have out iron, our steel and our lead, 
But ours is living, and theirs is dead, 

And the music of peace is the powder. 



78 jane rowley's 

Then a song shall arise in melodious might, 

To God who has severed the dark from the light, 

And the work and the workmen created ; 
By the play of the muscles he holds us in health, 
By the sweat of the brow can endow us with wealth, 

In the love of our labor elated. 

We sow for the weal of the loved ones at home, 
We know in good time that the harvest will come, 

He wins who has honestly striven ; 
Our toil is the salt of the bread of to-day, 
And the food of our heart is the faith that can say, — 

We, too, have our rest and our heaven. 



ODE ON THE RHINE'S RETURNING INTO 
GERMANY FROM FRANCE. 

BY HORACE BINNEY WALLACE. 

Oh ! sweet is thy current by town and by tower, 
The green sunny vale and the dark Linden bower ; 
Thy waves, as the dimple, smile back on the plain, 
And Rhine, ancient river, thou'rt German again ! 

The roses are sweeter the air is more free, 
More blythe is the song of the bird on the tree ; 
The yoke of the mighty is broken in twain, 
And Rhine, dearest river, thou art German again ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 79 

The land is at peace and breaks out into song, 
The hills in their echoes the cadence prolong ; 
The sons of the forest take up the glad strain, 
" Our Rhine, our own river, is German again ! " 

Thy daughters, sweet river ! thy daughters so fair, 
With their eyes of dark azure, and soft sunny hair, 
Repeat 'mid their dances at eve on the plain, 
" Our Rhine, our own river, is German again!" 



Work is the iron ploughshare that goes over the 
field of the heart, rooting up all the pretty grasses 
and the beautiful, hurtful weeds that we have taken 
such a pleasure in growing, laying them all under, 
fair and foul together, making plain, dull-looking 
arable land for neighbors to peer at ; until at night- 
time, down in the deep furrows, the angels come and 
sow. A man who can give up dreaming and go to 
his daily realities — who can smother down his heart, 
its love or woe, and take to the hard work of his hand 
— who defies fate, and if he must die, dies fighting to 
the last — that man is life's best hero. 



Independence. — A strong determination to place 
yourself where you are not wanted. 



8o jane rowley's 

A PLEA FOR THE DOVE. 

A " sport !" strip off the thin disguise, 
The glamour fashion throws 

The glitter of a paltry prize, — 
And see how vile it shows. 

Within a narrow trap is pent 

A little gentle bird, 
Whose prison pen flies open when 

The " sportsman" gives the word. 

With levelled gun the gallant shot 
Stands thirty feet away, — 

Both barrells primed — his spirit hot, 
And eager for the fray. 

Alas ! for England's chivalry, 

When "Lords and Commons" meet, 

And in a race of blood so base, 
With England's Heir compete ! 

Poor little dove ! the odds are vast 
Against thee in the strife, 

And yet so keen within thy breast, 
God set the love of life. 

Sometimes the gallant sportsman's skill, 
The trout that pulls the string, 



SCRAP BOOK. Si 

And twenty scouts will fail to kill 
One weak defenceless thing ! 

Sometimes it falls within the walls, 

To writhe awhile and die ; 
Sometimes with entrails pierced and torn, 

It flutters to the sky: 

While falling from the sweet, blue heav'n, 

The red drops stain the sward, 
As though its tide of being cried 

In witness to the Lord. 

Is this the bird whose tribe of old 

The harp of David sings ? 
Her feathers touched with yellow gold 

And silver on her wings ? 

Is this the chosen shape in which, 

As sacred records tell, 
The Holy Ghost, by Jordan's coast, 

On Christ the Saviour fell ? 

Alex. Btitler Hume. 



"Come on ! " as the man said to his tight shoe. 
"Come in ! " as the spider said to the fly. 
" You make me blush," as the lobster said to the sauce- 
pan. 



82 jane rowley's 

SIMPLICITY OF DRESS. 

Female loveliness never appears to so good advan 
tage as when set off with simplicity of dress. No ar- 
tist ever decks his angels with feathers and gaudy- 
jewelry ; and our dear human angels, if they would 
make good their title to that name, should carefully 
avoid ornaments which properly belong to Indian squaws 
and African princes. These tinsels may serve to 
give effect on the stage, but in daily life there is no 
substitute for the charm of simplicity. A vulgar taste 
is not to be disguised by gold and diamonds. The 
absence of a true taste and real refinement of delicacy, 
cannot be compensated for by the possession of the 
most princely fortune. Mind measures gold, but gold 
cannot measure mind. Through dress the mind may 
be read, as through the delicate tissue the lettered page. 
A modest woman will dress modestly ; a really refined 
and intellectual woman will bear the marks of careful 
selection and faultless taste. 



A Sublime Truth. — Let a man have all the world 
can give him, he is still miserable if he has a grovel- 
ling, unlettered, undevout mind. Let him have his 
gardens, his fields, his woods ; his lawns for grandeur ; 
plenty of ornaments and gratification ; while at the 
same time if God is not in all his thoughts, he wil 



SCRAP BOOK. 83 

yet be miserable. And let another have neither fields 
nor gardens ; let him only look at nature with an en- 
lightened mind — a mind which can see and adore the 
Creator in His works ; can consider them as a demon- 
stration of His power, of His wisdom, His goodness, 
and His truth — this man is great, as well as happier 
In his poverty, than the other in his riches. The one 
is a little higher than a beast, the other a little lower 
than an angel. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

Before I trust my fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all to thee, 
Question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret ; 
Is there one link within the past, 
That holds thy spirit yet ? 

Or is thy faith as clear and free, 
As that which I can pledge to thee ? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams, 
A possible future shine. 



84 JANE ROWLEV'S 

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
Untouched, unshared, by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
Oh ! tell me, before all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole ; 
Let no false pity spare the blow, 
But in true mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfil ? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still ? 

Speak now, lest at some future day 
My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid, 

The demon spirit change? 
Shedding a passing glory still 
On all things new and strange? 
It may not be thy fault alone, — 
But shield my heart against thy own. 

Could' st thou withdraw one day, 
And answer to my claim, 



SCRAP BOOK. 85 

That fate, and not to-day's mistake, 
Not thou had been to blame ; 

Some soothe their conscience thus, but thou, 
O, surely, thou wilt warn me now. 

Nay, answer — I dare no hear, 

The words would come too late, 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So comfort thee my fate ; 

Whatever on my heart may fall, 
Remember I would risk it all. 



NO LETTERS. 

BY JOHN COLEMAN DAW. 

No letter — no ! It is too bad, 
Such hopes of getting one I had, 
Some little news to make me glad, 

I long expected. 
The hopes are crushed and I am sad 

And so dejected. 

No letter — no ! Alackaday ! 
And I from home so long away ; 
I ask ye, friends, to tell me, pray, 

Am I ever thought on ? 
Echo answers — seems to say, 

You are forgotten. 



JANE ROWLEYS 

No letter ! 'Tis a simple thing, 
But oh ! a letter oft will bring 
Joy to those who wandering, 

Are lone, sad-hearted, 
And make them with affection cling, 

To friends long parted. 



Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart, 
An instant sunshine through the heart, 
As if the soul that moment caught, 
Some treasure it through life had sought. 

As if the very lips and eyes, 
Predestined to have all one's sighs, 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before us then. 

So came thy every look and tone, 
When first on me it breathed and shone ; 
New, as if come from other spheres, 
Yet welcome, as if loved for years. 

Then fly with me if thou hast known, 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away that thou hast sworn, 
Should ever in thy heart be worn. 



SCRAP ROOK. S7 

Come, if the love thou hast for me, 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee ; 
Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 

But if for me thou dost forsake, 
Some other maid and rudely break, 
Her worship'd image from its base, 
To give to me the ruined place, — 

Then fare-thee-well, I'd rather make, 
My bower upon some icy lake, 
Where thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine. 

Thomas Moore. 



SONG. 

BY THOMAS MOORE. 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 

And a bright, gold ring on her wand she bore, 

But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. 

" Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, 

So lone and lovely through this bleak way? 

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, 

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? " 



88 jane rowley's 

" Sir knight ! I feel not the least alarm ; 
No son of Erin will offer me harm ; — 
For though the lone woman and golden store, 
Sir knight, they love honor and virtue more." 

On she went, and her maiden smile, 
In safety lighted her round the green Isle ; 
And blest forever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride. 



PEOPLE WILL TALK. 

You may get through the world, but 'twill be very slow 
If you listen to all that is said as you go. 
You'll be worried, and fretted, and kept in a stew, 
For meddlesome tongues must have something to do, — 
And people will talk. 

If quiet and modest you'll have it presumed 
That your humble position is only assumed ; — 
You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, or else you're a fool, 
But don't get excited, keep perfectly cool, — 
For people will talk. 

And then if you show the least boldness of heart, 
Or a slight inclination to take your own part, 
They will call you an upstart, conceited and vain, 
But keep straight ahead, don't stop to complain, — 
For people will talk. 



SCRAP BOOK. 89 

If thread-bare your dress, or old-fashioned your hat, 
Some one surelyw ill take notice of that, 
And hint rather strong that you can't pay your way, 
But don't get excited whatever they say, — 
For people will talk. 

If you dress in the fashion, don't think to escape, 
For they criticise then in a different shape ; 
You're ahead of your means, or your tailor's unpaid, 
But mind your own business, there's nought to be made, 
For people will talk. 

Now the best way to do, is to do as you please, 
For your mind, if you have one, will then be at ease ; 
Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse, 
But don't think to stop them, it's not any use, — 
For people will talk. 



CAPRICE. 



Love is a bird of summer skies, 

From clouds and from winter he soon departs, 
He basks in the beams of good-humored eyes, 

And delights in the warmth of open hearts ; 
But when he has once found chill and rain, 
He seldom returns to that bower again. 

Harriot's brow was passing fair, 

And love in the shape of a mortal sprite, 



go jane Rowley's 

Came to bask in the sunshine there, 

And plumed his soft wings for delight ; 
But a wintry cloud would oft come o'er, 

And then for a time, 

Without reason or rhyme, 
The sun would shine no more. 

It chanced in one of those winter showers, 
A cloud pass'd by, 
And no one knew why, 
And frightened poor love from his garden of flowers. 
He wandered in sadness away, away, 

Till he came to a bower that stood hard by. 
Here all was a sunny, summer day, 
And never a cloud came o'er that eye, 
But morn and night, 
It beamed ever bright, 
With spirit, and joy, and courtesy. 

He laid himself down, the hours flew o'er, 
He thought of the spot he had left no more, 
For all was here, 
Without shadow or fear, 
And each moment was sweet as the one before. 
"No matter," said she, "let him wander awhile, 
I can, when I please, bring him back with a smile, 
But ladies who trust so much to their power, 



SCRAP BOOK. Ql 

To recover the heart, their caprice has lost, 
Will prove in many a bitter hour, 

The danger of playing with love to their cost. 

Many a day and week passed by, 

And Harriot though she would not tell, 
That she loved the wanderer much and well, 

Drew many a secret sigh ; 

And she managed to get it conveyed to the swain, 
By some kind friend in a roundabout way, 

That if he thought proper to seek her again, 
The weather in future might be more gay. 

Love declined with a smile, k ' I thank you my dear, 
I'm perfectly happy and free from care, 

I never saw other than summer here, 
And why run the risk of winter there. 



If happiness has not her seat and centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest. 

Burns. 



OLD ENOUGH. 

An Irishman is never at peace but when he's fighting. 
An Englishman is never happy but when he's miserable. 
A Scotchman never at home but when he's abroad. 



92 JANE ROWLEYS 

UNCLE TOM'S GLIMPSE OF GLORY. 
Gentle as glideth the glad light of day, 

Little Evangeline passes away ; 
No more her feet through the flowers will roam, 

Softly but surely she neareth her home. 

Now all her loved ones she calls round her bed, 

And gives each a curl from her fair drooping head, 

And bids them remember to meet her above, 

And Him who so loves them, forget not to love. 

Why seeks the veranda the good Uncle Tom, 

And leaves his own cabin, though midnight has come ? 
He knoweth the Bridegroom ere long will be there, 

And watcheth and waiteth till He shall appear. 
For oh ! when He cometh and taketh His own, 

He knows that the gates will be wide open thrown. 
He may catch of the world without soitow and sin, 

A glimpse of the glory as Eva goes in. 



And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep, 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep. 
And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest, 
For love is only found, 

To warm the turtle's nest. — Oliver Goldsmith. 



SCRAP BOOK. 93 

HONOR TO BERGH. 

In the wind-swept street, where the stately form, 
Meets the brunt of the fiercest storm, 
Braving the fury of sleet and rain, 
To lighten the burden of helpless pain. 
There should the fair white temple rise, 
Lifting his name to the bending skies, 
Showing the honor his work has won, 
And the city's praise of her noble son ! 

Well may we offer him homage here ! 
His heavenly Master holds him dear, 
Through the tender pity his soul has shown 
To the hopeless grief of the dumb beast's moan. 
He toils for the Master none the less, 
That his care is given to the mute distress, 
Of the patient creature whose years of pain 
Attest to their Maker their greed of gain. 

His life's great lesson has swayed the land, 
And safe in the grasp of his outstretched hand, 
He holds the rights that his country yields 
To the dumb surf tilling her fertile fields. 
No grateful glance of meek surprise, 
Can he hope to win from their saddened eyes ; 
But the merciful deeds of his days are set, 
As gems in a heaven-kept coronet ! 



94 JANE ROWLEYS 

The smile of God for a human frown, 
For earthly service a saintly crown ; 
For evil defeated and wrong redressed, 
A spirit soothed and a heart at rest ! 
This the reward of the task must be, 
Since the loving eye of his God can see, 
What our human vision may faintly scan, 
The Angel of Mercy above the man ! 



ONLY A DOG. 



The writer of the following beautiful poem is Mrs. E. J. Nickerson, 
one of the two proprietors of the New Orleans Picayune. 

" Only a dog ! " you wonder why 
I grieve so much to see him die, 

Ah ! if you knew 
How true a friend a dog can be, 
And what a friend he was to me 

When friends were few ! 

" Only a dog ! " — " a beast ! " you sneer, 
" Not Worthy a sigh or tear." 

Speak not to me 
Such falsehood of my poor, dumb friend, 
While I have language to defend 

His memory. 



SCRAP BOOK. 95 

Through ups and downs, through thick and thin, 
My boon companion he has been 

For years and years. 
He jom*neyed with me miles and miles, 
I gave him frowns, I gave him smiles, 

And now sad tears. 

Before my children came, his white, 
Soft head was pillowed every night 

Upon my breast. 
So let him lie just one time more, 
Upon my bosom as before, 

And take his rest. 

And when a tenderer love awoke, 
The first sweet word my baby spoke 

Was "Ma-t,pur Mat! " 
Could I no other reason tell, 
My mother heart would love you well 

For only that. 

Together boy and dog have laid 
Upon my lap, together played 

Around my feet. 
Till laugh and bark together grew 
So much alike, I scarcely knew 

Which was most sweet. 



96 jane rowley's 

Ah ! go away and let me cry, 

For now you know the reason why 

I loved him so. 
Leave me alone to close his eyes, 
The look so wistful and so wise, 

Trying to know. 

At garden gate or open door, 
You'll run to welcome me no more, 

Dear little friend. 
You were so kind, so good and true, 
I question, looking down on you, — 

Is this the end ? 

Is there for you " no other side " ? 
No home beyond death's chilly tide, 

And heavy fog, 
Where meekness and fidelity 
Will meet reward, although you be 

Only a dog? 



It is not enough to be a man ; the responsibility of 
manhood must be discharged. The foot must do the 
foot's work, and leave the eye to do its own business. 
A flower is useful, though it does not grow fruit. 
Gladly I proclaim the usefulness of beauty. A flower 
has many a time opened the very heavens to my aching 



SCRAP BOOK. 97 

heart. It has spoken to me of purity and simplicity, and 
frailty, and mortality, and dependence. Was it useless 
because it gave me neither wine nor corn ? Truly not. It 
did its work, and no angel could do more. — Doctor 
Parker. 



THE BRIGHT, SILVER LILY. 

The bright, silver lily, to love I compare, 
But never was lily to me half so fair, 
So fragrant, so blooming, so chaste, or so meek, 
As the rose that is blooming on modesty's cheek. 

I have seen the sweet blush of the fresh, risen morn, 
I have seen the sweet cowslip deep under the thorn, 
But the beauty I love, and the charmer I seek, 
Is the rose that is blooming on modesty's cheek. 

They say there's a charm in the love-beaming eye, 
They say there's a charm in the love -breathing sigh, 
But where is the charm her eye would bespeak, 
If the rose is not blooming on modesty's cheek. 

If beauty is .charming I'll bend at its shrine, 
Perhaps I might own the fair nymph is divine, 
But the beauty I love, and the charmer I seek, 
Is the rose that is blooming on modesty's cheek. 



98 jane rowley's 

I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. 

SUNG BY MISS KELLY. 

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower, 

Where roses, and lilies and violets meet, 
Roving forever from flower to flower, 

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
I'd never languish for wealth or for power, 

I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet ; 
I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, 

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, 
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 

O ! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, 

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ; 
Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, 

They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings ; 
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, 

Power, alas ! nought but misery brings. 
I'd be a butterfly sportive and airy, 

Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, 
Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. 

What, though you tell me, each gay little rover, 

Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, 
Surely 'tis better when summer is over 



SCRAP BOOK. 

To die, when all fair things are fading away ; 
Some in life's winter may toil to discover, 

Means of procuring a weary delay, — ■ 
I'd he a butterfly living a rover, 

Dying when fair things are fading away. 
I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, 
Dying when fair things are fading away. 



99 



SONG. 

KINLOCK OF KINLOCK. 

How oft have I marked the pale moon-beams whilst 
sailing, 
Out over the waves of a dark rolling sea. 
It softened my heart with the tenderest feeling, 

To know that those moon-beams were smiling on thee. 
And then my heart 
Would anxious start, 
As from your arms 
I rushed away 
At honor's call, far, far from all, 
Whose smile of love had cheered my way. 

But now I have ceased all such useless repining, 
Since hope fills my heart with the promise of joy, 
While the sunshine of pleasure around me is shining. 
None but you, my dear girl, my ideas employ. 



IOO JANE ROWLEYS 

Though far from thee 
I'm forced to be, 
Yet when I reach 
My native shore, 
I'll never roam, so far from home, 
No, never leave my charmer more. 



AT THE TOMB. 

GREENWOOD, DEC. 4, 1872. 

[From the Chicago Evening Post.] 

Not they alone 
Whose orphaned hearts are bleeding by his bier, 
Broken, distraught, undone, 

Are weeping here ! 
Not they whose lives in nearness grown, 

Make answering moan, 
And hither follow, blankly led, 
To whitely gaze upon his lowly bed ! 
These but his household wards ! 
Behind in mute dismay, 
Rank after rank, in desolate array, 

Stretches the army of his mourning guards, 
A continent away ! 

But 'tis no martial host ! 
No blood-dewed fields, or pillaged homes the boast, 



SCRAP BOOK. IOI 

With ravaged hearts for cost ! 

No, (witness, God !) 
Was his the leadership of blood, 

Or hate, or spleen, or woe ! 

For these he struck no blow. 
His was the championship of light ! 

The fields he fought, — 

The sounding victories he wrought, 
Were fields and victories of right, 

Weaponed of truth, of honor, reason, thought! 

And this his mourning host, 
Still white and cold, as with December frost, 
And dazed and numb, as if of country lost, — 
The drooping heads and trembling hands, 
That clasp and stretch away across the lands. 
These are the witnesses that here, 
Beside his mighty bier, 
Stricken, and bowed and dumb, — 
To plead for him what he bequeathed them, come, 
Come and carve it on his tomb ! 

The weak he lifted up, 
The thirsting soul he gave the cooling cup, 

The bound whose chains he broke, 
The wronged he righted with his giant stroke, 

The suffering poor he fed, 

The wayward souls to better paths he led, 



102 JANE ROWLEYS 

Them he found brutes, and moulded into men, 
All, all whose paths he lit with glowing pen 

Are here to swell the throng, 

He lived and wrought among, 

And suffered to make strong ! 

Be cheered, oh ! aching hearts, 

That orphaned are no more ! 
Through tears look up and see, 
The millions that he saved are parents unto thee ! 

Behold the balm they pour ! 

Through all the world 
Tread the great host that see and share your smarts, 
And walk beside you with their banners furled, 
Where gleams the goal he sought — the better day, 
Now as of old 'tis his to lead the way, — 

To smooth the rugged road, — 
To go before and plead for them who stay, — 

To ease their heavy load, 

And cheer them on to God ! 

D. Blakely. 



A SWARM OF B'S WORTH HIVING. 

B patient, B prayerful, B humble, B mild, 
B wise as a Soloman, B meek as a child ; 
B studious, B thoughtful, B loving, B kind, 
Beware you make matter subservient to mind ; 



scrap book. 103 

B cautious, B prudent, B trustful, B true, 
B courteous to all men, B friendly with few ; 
B temperate in argument, pleasure and wine, 
B careful of conduct, of money and time ; 
B cheerful, B grateful, B hopeful, B firm, 
B peaceful, benovelent, B willing to learn ; 
B courageous, B gentle, B liberal, B just, 
B aspiring, B humble, because thou art dust; 
B penitent, circumspect, B sound in the faith, 
B active, devoted, B faithful till death ; 
B honest, B holy, B transparent and pure, 
B dependant, B Christlike, and you'll be secure. 



A BLACKSMITH INTERVIEWED. 

BY JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 

Horny hands and swarthy face, 

Burliest of a burly race, 

The Saxon blacksmith took his place 

Beside his anvil: "Sir," said I, 
"They say you've laid a fortune by; 
Why still your hard vocation ply ? " 

"Stranger," said he, "I see your plan, 
A prying, interviewing man, 
Come to find out all you can, 



104 jane rowley's 

And put it in the papers ; well, 
You see I did quit work a spell, 
Till Tom Sparks came to Battledell ; 

Tom Sparks, the blacksmith over there, 
At t'other corner of the square, 
And folks said I wa'nt anywhere. 

That this Tom Sparks could beat me blind, 

At blacksmith work of any kind, 

Especially at putting on horses shoes behind ! " 

The speaker paused and breathed a spell, 
And from his eyes the sparks that fell, 
Lit the bravest face in Battledell. 

"Stranger, I don't care what you say, 
I'm rather odd, I've got my way, 
I'll get on top, and there I'll stay. 

That is, I don't care what the loss is, 
Learn my trade over, work under bosses, 
Or beat Tom Sparks a shoeing horses ! " 

There is a lesson, learn it well, 
Caught in the story that I tell, 
Of that proud smith of Battledell. 

He had a soul the type of those, 
To whom success forever goes, 
For whom the victor's laurel grows. 



SCRAP BOOK. IO^ 

Such wills as his have caught the world, 
And held it fast when thrones were hurled 
Together, and the red flames curled 

Above the wreck. When Caesar fell 
No grander spirit said farewell 
Than had the smith of Battledell. 



WOMEN IN CONVERSATION. 

It is their eminent domain. There is a good deal of 
banter afloat on the subject, and one might easily sup- 
pose that our women were given to talk ; but nothing is 
further from the truth. Their fault in society is that they 
do not talk. They are timid, not socially, but in- 
tellectually. They are afraid to imbibe, or to cherish, 
or to enunciate ideas. They distrust their own capaci- 
ties and acquirements, and have mistrusted them so long 
and so sincerely, that the mistrust presently becomes 
final and fatal. They have too much sense to be sill)', 
and too little power to be self-forgetful, so they take a 
secondary place when they ought to be in the van. It is 
not oppression on the one part nor superiority on the 
other, but the natural effect of a long line of causes. 
Women not only fear men, but they fear each other. 

Gail Hamilton. 



106 jane Rowley's 

ERIC AND AXEL. 

BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Though they never divided my meat or wine, 

Yet Eric and Axel are friends of mine ; 

Never shared my sorrow nor laughed with my glee, 

Yet Eric and Axel are dear to me ; 

And more faithful comrades no man ever knew, 

Than Eric and Axel, the fearless, the true ! 

When I hit the target, they feel no pride, 

When I spin with the waltzers, they wait outside ; 

When the holly of yule-tide hangs in the hall, 

And kisses are freest, they care not at all ; 

When I sing they are silent, — I speak, they obey, — 

Eric and Axel, my hope and my stay. 

They wait for my coming, they know I shall come, 
When the dancers are faint, and the fiddlers numb, 
With a shout of "Ho, Eric ! Axel, ho ! " 
As we skim the wastes of the Norrland snow, 
And their frozen breath to a silvery gray 
Turns Eric's raven and Axel's bay. 

By the bondehus and the herregoard, 
O'er the glossy pavement of firth and ford, 
Through the tall fir-woods that like steel are drawn, 
On the broadening red of the rising dawn, 



SCRAP BOOK. I07 

Till one low roof, where the hills unfold, 
Shelters us all from the angry cold. 

I tell them the secret none else shall hear, — 
I love her, Eric, I love her dear ; 
I love her, Axel, wilt love her, too, 
Though her eyes are dark and mine are blue? 
She has eyes like yours, so dark and clear ; — 
Eric and Axel will love my dear ! 

They would speak if they could, but I think they know 
Where, when the moon is thin, they shall go ; 
To wait awhile in the sleeping street, 
To hasten away upon snow-shod feet, 
Away and away, e'er the morning star 
Touches the tops of the spires of Calmar. 

Per, the merchant may lay at her feet 
His Malaga wine, and his raisins sweet, 
Brought in his ships from Portugal land, 
And I am as bare as the palm of my hand, 
But she sighs for me and she sighs for you, 
Eric and Axel, my comrades true. 

You care not, Eric, for gold or wine, 

You care not, Axel, for show or shine, 

But you care for the touch of the hand that's dear, 



10S jane Rowley's 

And the voice that fondles you through the ear, 
And you shall save us, through storm and snow, 
When she calls, "Ho, Eric ! " and "Axel, ho ! " 



BE BRAVE. 



Be brave to do right. There are always men en- 
ough and women enough in the world who have no 
wish to see the right vindicated ; who pause on the 
low plains of selfishness, and will not so much as 
lift their eyes toward the hills where truth stands. The 
glowing splendor of that future which is coming nearer 
every day, and which is to be a glorious kingdom 
which truth will occupy for her own, has no power 
over their minds or hearts. 

Truth is like the blowing of the strong winds through 
the universe. It will uncover deceit ; it will strip off 
the mantle of pretence ; it will scatter the chaff' from 
the golden grain. And how much nobler to stand be- 
fore the blast, and have our lives purified of the dross 
of our weak thoughts, than to hide until the storm is 
past, and then shine in false light. Be brave to do 
whatsoever our hands jind to do without murmurs or 
complaint. If it is our lot to toil for daily bread, let 
us labor cheerfully, glad God has given us health and 
strength ; and if he grants us neither of these, let us 



SCRAP BOOK. 109 

be brave to suffer in silenee, and let only our songs 
find a way out into the world. 

In our pleasant childhood we are like birds in the 
nest ; but our Father has given us wings, and sooner 
or later we must learn to fly. Whatever it costs us 
we must not stop to count that, for we are in his hands, 
and as our day, so shall our strength be. 

Have courage to be honest ; the world has great need 
of honest women just now. 

Be brave to wear calico when your neighbor wears 
silk ; to live in a little house, when your friend lives in a 
large one ; to labor in your kitchen, when your sisters 
sit in their parlors with folded hands. 

It is not the opinion the throng led by fashion and 
love of ease, which is to ennoble us, but the verdict of our 
own consciences. — Allena Audly. 



Our ingress into the world was marked and sore, 
Our progress through it was trouble and care, 
Our egress out of it God knows where. 
The better we do here, the better we'll do there. 
If I would preach for ever I could tell you no more. 



CAT. 

An animal that old maids love, 

Because it gives out sparks when rubbed. 



JANE ROWLEYS 

PRAYERS I DON'T LIKE. 

I do not like to hear him pray, 

Who loans at twenty-five per cent., 
For then I think the borrower may 

Be pressed to pay for food and rent ; 
And in that Book we all should heed, 

Which says the lender shall be blest, 
As sure as I have eyes to read, 

It does not say, "Take interest." 

I do not like to hear him pray 

On bended knees about an hour, 
For grace to spend aright the day, 

Who knows his neighbor has no flour ; 
I'd rather see him go to mill, 

And buy the luckless brother bread, 
And see his children eat their fill, 

And laugh beneath their humble shed. 

I do not like to hear him pray, 

"Let blessings on the widow be," 
Who never seeks her home to say, 

"If want o'ertakes you, come to me." 
I hate the prayer so loud and long, 

That's offered for the orphan's weal, 
By him who sees him crushed by wrong, 

And only with the lips doth feel. 



SCRAP BOOK. Ill 

I do not like to hear her pray, 

With jeweled ear and silken dress, 
Whose washer-woman toils all day, 

And then is asked to "work for less." 
Such pious shavers I despise, 

With folded hands and face demure, 
They lift to heaven their "angel eyes," 

Then steal the earnings of the poor. 

I do not like such soulless prayers, 

If wrong I hope to be forgiven. 
No angel's wing them upward bears, — 

They're lost a million miles from heaven. 



AN EXILE'S SONG. 

Despondence and pain on my spirit have lain, 
And baffled each struggle I made to be free, 

Since they came o'er me, 

That dark day that bore me, 
Away from my home, o'er the waves of the sea. 

The vision ne'er dies from the dream of my eyes, 
That memory pictures the past in for me, 

While deep in its throbbing, 

My sad heart is sobbing, 
And yearns for its home o'er the foam of the sea. 



112 JANE ROWLEYS 

Decay winds its chain 'round my limbs and my brain, 
If I linger, perchance I shall ne'er again see 

The green land I sigh for, 

And gladly would die for, 
My fair island home o'er the foam of the sea. 

O ! swift, then, returning from darkness and mourning, 
The exile will rest, gentle Erin with thee. 

Here fortune looked fav'ring, 

But oh ! never wavering, 
He flies to his home o'er the foam of the sea. 



Trifles. — When a care for small things is combined 
with an intense fear of the opinions of others, a state of 
mind is generated which will neither allow the possessor 
of it to be happy in himself, or herself, nor permit 
those about him or her to enjoy any peace or comfort for 
long. It is, of course, a preeminent hinderance to the 
blessings of social intercourse. 



Kindness infuses the greatest energy into both heart and 
soul, and creates that spirit of self-abandonment to the 
general good which annihilates selfish considerations, 
and binds all classes in the bonds of peaceful and holy 
brotherhood. — Lord Burleigh. 



Sound doctrine is not so soon indicated by never 
making a mistake, as by never repeating it. 



SCRAP BOOK. 113 

WILL WATCH. 

BY CORY. 

'Tvvas one morn when the wind from northward blew 
keenly, 
While sullenly roared the big waves of the main, 
A famed smuggler, Will Watch, kissed his Sue, then 
serenely 
Took helm, and to sea boldly steered out again. 

Will had promised his Sue that this trip if well ended, 
Should coil up his hopes, and he'd anchor on shore ; 

When his pockets were lined, why his life should be 
mended, 
The laws he had broken, he'd never break more. 

His sea-boat was trim, made her port, took her lading, 
Then Will stood for home, reached the offing and cried, 

" This night, if I've luck, furls the sails of my trading, 
In dock I can lay, serve a friend, too, beside." 

Will layed-totill the night came on, darksome and dreary, 
To crowd ev'ry sail, then, he piped up each hand ; 

But a signal soon spied, 'twas a prospect uncheery, 
A signal that warned him to bear from the land. 

"The Philistines are out !" cries Will; ''well, take no 
heed on't ; 
Attacked, who's the man that will flinch from his gun ; 



114 JANE ROWLEYS 

Should my head be blown off, I shall ne'er feel the need 
on't, • 

We'll fight while we can, when we can't, boys, we'll 
run. 

Through the haze of the* night, a bright flash now ap- 
pearing, — 
''Oh! ho!" cries Will Watch, "the Philistines bear 
down, 
"Bear a hand ! my bright lads, e'er we think about sheer- 
ing, 
One broadside pour in should we swim, boys, or 
drown. 

"But should I be popped off, you my mates, left behind 
me, 
Regard my last words, see them kindly obeyed, 
Let no stone mark the spot, and my friends do you mind 
me, 
Near the beach is the spot whei - e Will Watch would 
be laid." 

Poor Will's yarn was spun out, for a bullet next minute, 

Laid him low on the deck and he never spake more ; 
His bold crew fought the brig, while a shot remained in 
it, 
Then sheer'd, and Will's hulk to his Susan they bore. 
In the dead of the night, his last wish was complied 
with, 



SCRAP BOOK. 115 

Too few know his grave, and too few know his end ; 
He was borne to the earth by the crew that he died with. 
He'd the tears of his Susan, the prayers of each friend. 

Near his grave dash the billows, the wind loudly 
bellows. 
Yon ash struck with lightning points out the cold bed, 
Where Will Watch, the bold smuggler, that famed, law- 
less fellow, 
Once feared, now forgotten, sleeps with the dead. 



Flowers. — The terrestial stars that bring down heav- 
en to earth, and carry up our thoughts from earth to 
heaven, — the poetry of the Creator written in beauty and 
fragrance. " He who does not love flowers," said Lud- 
wig Tieg, a German writer, " has lost all fear and love 
of God." Another German author defines woman as 
"something between a flower and an angel." 



HOME. 



There's magic in that little word, 
It is a mystic circle that surmounts 
Comforts and virtues never known 
Beyond the hallowed limit. 



Death. — The sleeping partner of life. 



n6 jane rowley's 

ARAB MAXIMS. 

First. — Let your colt be domesticated and live with 
you from his tenderest age, and when a horse he will be 
docile, simple, faithful, and inured to hardship and fa- 
tigue. 

Second. — Do not beat your horses, nor speak to them 
in a loud tone of voice ; do not get angry with them, but 
kindly reprove their faults , they will do better there- 
after, for they understand the language of man and its 
meaning. 

Third. — If you have a long day's journey before you, 
spare your horse at the start ; let him frequently walk to 
recover his wind ; continue this until he has perspired 
and dried three times, and you may ask him whatever 
you please, he will not leave you in difficulty. 

Fourth. — Observe your horse when he drinks at a 
brook. If in bringing down his head he remains square, 
without bending his limbs, he possesses sterling qualities, 
and all parts of his body are built symmetrically. 

Fifth. — Four things he must have broad, front, 
chest, loins, and limbs ; four things long, neck, chest, 
forearm and croup ; four things short, pastern, back, 
ears and tail. 



SCRAP BOOK. 117 

DISCORD. 

BY MRS. M. C. AMES. 

Swift through the fragrant air it fell, 

A single word. 
The wound it made no tongue can tell, 

For no one heard, 
Save one sweet heart, whose very life 

Is love and truth — 
This heart the word pierced like a knife. 

No pulse of ruth 
Thrilled him who spake the cruel word ; 

He willed and spoke, — 
A fair face quivered like a bird, 

A fond heart broke. 

Alas ! the spring-time air is full 

Of wrathful words ; 
They rise to heaven and would annul 

The sweet-voiced birds, 
That everywhere on glancing wing, 

Fly from the south, 
New messages of love to bring 

With open mouth. 

Nature's glad face the sons of men 

Doth put to shame. 
She says : " Poor children of the earth, 



n8 jane rowley's 

• Why strive and blame ? 
You work and war, — the will of fate 

Abides the same. 
The purposes of God survive 

Your feeble fray ; 
You cannot change them though you shrive 

Your sins alway. 
The name you toil for may outlive 

Your little day ; 
But you must live when earth and name 

Have fled away. 
Drink thou my sunshine, breathe my air, 

Ere yet too late ; 
Take thou with soul serene and fair, 

Thine high estate ! 
Still the untiring earth spins tow'rd 

Its central sun ; 
Nor fire nor force can hold it ward, 

Its face unrun ! 
The placid seasons o'er its breast 

Move to and fro ; 
Unscathed its birds brood in their nest, 

Its wood-flowers bloom 
In peace above its stormiest crest. 

In God's good plan 
His loveliest creatures all find rest, 

Not thou, O man ! 



SCRAP BOOK. II9 

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember, how my childhood flitted by ! 
The mirth of its December and the warmth of its July ; 
On my brow love, on my brow love, there are no sig n 

of care, 
But my pleasures are not now love, what childhoods 

pleasures were, — 

I remember, I remember. 

Then the bowers, then the bowers, where as blythe, 
And all their radiant flowers were as coronels to me ; 
Gems to-night love, gems to-night love, are gleaming in 

my hair, 
But they are not half so bright, love, as childhood's roses 

were, — 

I remember, I remember. 

I was merry, I was merry, when my little lovers came, 

With a lily, or a cherry, or a new-invented game ; 

Now I've you love, now I've you love, to kneel before 

me there, 
But you know you're not so true love, as childhood's 

lovers were. — 

I remember, I remember. 



Only he who fully knows the worth of what he re- 
nounces, gains the true blessing of renunciation. — George 
Willia?n Curtis. 



120 jane rowley's 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

BY ROBERT BURNS. 
May, 1786. 

I lang hae thought, my youthful friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end, 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 

And Andrew, dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'en when your end attained, 
And a' your views may come to naught, 

When ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll na say men are villains, a', 
The real hardened, wicked, 

What hea nea check but human law, 
Are to a few restricted ; 

But, och ! mankind are unco weak, 
And little to be trusted ; 



SCRAP BOOK. 121 

If self the wavering balance shake, 
It's rarely right adjusted. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still the important end of life, 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may have an honest heart, 

Tho' pov'rty hourly stare him, 
A man may take a ne'bor's part, 

Yet hea nea cash to spai-e him. 

Ay, free, off-han', your story tell, 

When wi 'a bosom crony, 
But still keep something to yourself, 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yourself as well's ye can, 

Fra critical dissection, 
But keep thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpened sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o'weel placed love, 

Luxuriently indulge it, 
But never tempt the illicit rove, 

Tho' neathing should divulge it. 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard o' concealing, 



122 jane Rowley's 

But oh ! it hardens a' within, 
And petrifies the feeling. 

To catch dame fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her, 
And gather year by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honor ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant, 
But for the glorious privilege, 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To hand the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honor grip, 

Let ay that be your border ; 
It's slightest touches, instant pause, 

Debar a' side pretences, 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 
Must sure become the creature, 

But still the pi-eaching can't forbear, 
And ev'n the rigid feature ; 

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 
Be complaisance extended, 



SCRAP BOOK. 123 

An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 
For Deity offended. 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded, 
Or if she give a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest driven, 

A conscience but a canker, — 
A correspondence fixed wi' heaven, 

Is sure a noble anchor. 

Adieu, dear amiable youth, 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ; 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunted ! 
In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed," 

Still daily to grow wiser, 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did the adviser. 



The heart that loves not knows not how to pray. 

The eye can never smile that never weeps ; 
'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play, 

And through our tears the bow of promise peeps. 

Denis Florence McCarty. 



124 Jane rowley's 

ON FEMALE VIRTUE, FRIENDSHIP AND CON- 
VERSATION. 

To form the manners of men, various things con- 
tribute, but nothing, I apprehend, so much, as the turn 
of the woman he has converse with. Those who are the 
most conversant with virtue and understanding, will al- 
ways be found the most amiable characters, other cir- 
cumstances being supposed alike. Such society more 
than any thing else rubs off the corners that give many of 
our sex an ungracious roughness. It produces a polish 
more perfect and more pleasing than that which is re- 
ceived from a general commerce with the world. This 
last is often spacious, but commonly superficial ; the 
other is the result of a gentler feeling and more elegant 
humanity ; the heart itself is moulded ; habits of undis- 
sembled courtesy are formed ; a certain flowing urbanity 
is acquired ; understanding and virtue, by being often 
contemplated in the engaging light, have a sort of assimi- 
lating power. If aught on earth can present the image 
of celestial excellence in its softest array, it is an accom- 
plished woman. 



I know this span of life was lent 
For lofty duties, not for selfishness, — 
Nor to be whiled away in aimless dreams. 

Aubray De Vere. 



SCRAP BOOK. [25 

SONG FOR BOYS. 

When life is full of health and glee, 

Work thou as busy as a bee ! 

And take this gentle hint from me : 

Be careful of your money, 

Be careful of your money, 
You'll find it true that friends are few, 

When you are short of money. 

But do not shut sweet mercy's doors, 
When sorrow pleads or want implores ; 
To help to heal misfortune's sores, 

Be careful of your money, 

Be careful of your money, boys, 

Be careful of your money ; 
To help the poor who seek your door, 

Be careful of your money. 



The good do not comprehend evil. Noble souls with 
difficulty reach the comprehension of evil and ingratitude ; 
they require harsh lessons befoi'e they recognize the ex- 
tent of human corruption. Then, when their education 
in this line is completed, they rise to an indulgence which 
is the last degree of contempt. 



Affectation is a greater enemy to the face than small- 
pox. 



126 jane rowley's 

TRUTH. 

What is truth ? A fadeless flower, 
A spring whose waters sweetly roll, 

A tree whose fruit has vital power, 
A fire which purifies the soul. 

A mirror without spot and bright, 

A balance having no defect, 
A compass always pointing right, 

A sword to punish and protect. 

A rock immovable, secure, 

A perfect gem from nature's mine, 

A way which leads to joys most pure, 
A glorious sun which ever shines. 

J. F. Harrington. 



Tranquility. — I look upon tranquility of mind and 
patience, to contribute as much as anything whatever to 
the curing of diseases. On this principle I account for 
the circumstance of animals not laboring under illness so 
long as human beings. Brutes do not think so much as 
we do, nor vex themselves about futurity, but endure 
their maladies without reflecting on them, and recover 
from them by the sole means of temperance and repose. 



There is in every human countenance either a history 
or a prophecy. 



SCRAP BOOK. 127 

DOMESTIC ETIQUETTE. 

A carelessness of speech is a fatal source of estrange- 
ment in married people. Now it is too much the fashion 
in all households to have a domestic colloquy, very 
different in its tone and carefulness to that in use with 
strangers. The very best of us, it is feared, are too 
prone to this, but from wives to husbands, and the re- 
verse, matrimony seems certainly to possess the chemical 
property of converting sweets into acids in no time. 
Short answers are the direst foe to domestic happiness or 
else no answer at all ; no conversation for his leisure, 
for when once on a time you carefully brushed up all 
your stores of knowledge, and an utter oblivion of the 
personal politeness which most well-conducted people 
think due to a stranger. Pity such things are kept, like 
your choicest preserves, merely for strangers. None 
can place too much value on domestic warmth of polite- 
ness, unmixed, of course, with hypocrisy or shallow 
words. Kindness might be a better word, perhaps, for 
what is meant ; for when there are kind hearts, there 
is almost sure to be a certain suavity of manners. 
But this etiquette of the heart you keep like your best 
clothes for comfort, never thinking that every day use is 
your true polish, not merely for the base metals but even 
to keep bright gold itself. 



128 jane rowley's 

We met, 'twas in a crowd, and I thought he would 
shun me, 

He came, I could not breathe, for his eye was upon me, 

He spoke, his words were cold, and his tone was un- 
altered. 

I knew how much he felt, for his deep-toned voice 
faltered. 

I wore my bridal robes, how I rivalled its whiteness, 

Bright gems were in my hair, how I hated their bright- 
ness, 

He called me by my name, as the bride of another ; 

Oh ! thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my 
mother. 

And once again we met, and a fair girl stood near him, 
He smiled and whispered low, as I once used to hear 

him. 
She leaned upon his arm, once 'twas mine and mine 

only, 
I wept, for I deserved to feel wretched and lonely. 

And she will be his bride, at the altar he'll give her 
The love that was too pure for a heartless deceiver ; 
The world may think me gay, but my feelings I smother ; 
Oh ! thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my 
mother. 



SCRAP BOOK. I29 

Slight wishes, the habitual respect to opinions, the 
polite abstinence from personal topics in the company of 
others ; unswerving attention to his or her comforts, both 
abi-oad and at home ; and above all, the careful preserva- 
tion of those proprieties of conversation and manner 
which are sacred when before the world, are some of the 
secrets of that rare happiness, which age and habit a' ike 
fail to impair or diminish. 



Good Breeding, is the art of showing men >y exter- 
nal signs the internal regard which we have for them. It 
arises from good sense, improved by conversing with 
good company. 



Age. — We ought not to calculate our age by the 

passing years, but by the events that happen. It is what 
we have done and what we have suffered make us old. 



If you would have a thing kept secret, never tell it to 
any one ; and if you would not have a thing known of 
you, never do it. 



As every thread of gold is valuable, so is every 
minute of time. 



I30 JANE ROWLEYS 

A PARTING SONG. 

BY MRS. HEMANS. 

When will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river are passing away, — 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought, 

Then let it be. 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the rose of the rich midsummer time, 
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime ; 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread, — 

Then let it be. 

When will ye think of me sweet friends? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eyes, 
At the sound of some olden melody, — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream, 

Then let it be. 



SCRAP BOOK. 131 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends, 

Thus ever think of me. 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone, — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found, 

So let it be. 



THE TWO FLAGS. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR IN CUBA. 
BY EDWARD RENACED. 

From the black browed Mora, the castle-crested crag, 
Drooped in the drowsy noontide the red and yellow flag, 
And in the seething city the sun with fiery glare, 
Flashed on a sea of faces — a thousand bayonets bare. 

Soldiers with sullen faces — a doomed man trembling 

nigh, 
While a motely throng from every side poured forth to 

see him die ; 
And all the might multitudes beheld with bated breath, 
The scene of coming slaughter — the many throated death. 

But by the pallid prisoner, bare-headed and stern-browed, 
Strode forth two gallant consuls before the surging 
crowd ; 



132 jane rowley's 

One waved Columbia's banner, and one the Union Jack, 
While all were filled with wonder, and waved the brave 
men back. 

But step by step together, before those armed bands, 
Paced those proud consuls, holding the ensign in their 

hands, 
"Present! " The three stood silent, one moment face to 

face, — 
The consuls calm and steady, and the prisoner in his 

place. 

A sudden flash of crimson, of red, and white and blue, 
The trembling captive cowered between the dauntless 

two ; 
The three stood draped together beneath the banners' 

fold— 
The proud twin flags of freedom — of the new world and 

the old. 

Then turning stern and haughty upon the ordered line : 
"By these broad flags I claim him, and keep him, he is 

mine ! 
Thus England and Columbia stretch arms across the 

seas 
To shield him. Strike the prisoner, you strike through 

us and these ! " 



SCRAP BOOK. I33 

Thus out spake he of England ; like lions brought to bay, 
The twain with eyes defiant looked round that stern array. 
There fell a solemn silence, the rifle-barrels shone 
Still at the doomsmen's shoulders, men shuddered and 
looked on. 

Till in a clear voice, crossing the bullet's threatened track, 
Rang out the sudden mandate to march the prisoner back ; 
And as the shining escort fell back and faced about, 
From all the crowded plaza went up a mighty shout. 

A mighty storm of vivas, that rent the sultry skies, 
Greeted the gallant consuls — the deed of high emprize, 
Still louder, even louder, went up that vast acclaim, 
From all the mighty plaza, bathed in its noontide flame. 

Onward to future ages, far down the teeming years, 
That sea of upturned faces sends forth its storm of cheers : 
Long shall the deed be honored, and proudly handed 

down, 
To crown the victor consuls with fame's enduring 

crown ! 

Hail to the hero consuls ! Hail to the noble twain ! 
Who dared for truth and duty the bullet's deadly rain ! 
How strong to face the mighty — how great to guard the 

weak — 
Are these, the great twin nations to whom the helpless 

seek ! 



134 jane rowley's 

Still shall our arms protecting be spread across the sea, 
Still shall the tyrants fear us who set their captives free, 
Wrapped in a mighty mantle from hatred's cruel scars, — 
The blood-red flag of England, Columbia's stripes and 
stars. 



THE LAND THAT WE LEFT, AND THE LAND 
THAT WE LTVE IN. 

BY J. GRAHAM. 
CHORUS. 

Come hearts, of no patriot feeling bereft, 

Let this be the toast that is given : — 
"Oh ! here's to the dear, native land that we left, 

And here's to the land that we live in." 
Wherever the banner of freedom is spread, 

At home, or where wandering a stranger, 
The last drop of blood in our veins shall be shed, 

To guard the loved ensign from danger, 
Come hearts. 

But love sheds a charm o'er the land of our birth, 
And where is the hand would remove it? 

For if there be patriot worth on this earth, 
O ! this is the feeling will prove it. 
Come hearts. 



SCRAP BOOK. I35 

For home when the wanderer is heaving a sigh, 

O, let not the native deride it ; 
But leave his own country and then let him try 

If e'en his own breast could avoid it. 
Come hearts. 

The heart that is cold to the land of its home, 

The scenes of another may charm it ; 
But cold to its home, o'er earth should it roam, 

What patriot feeling can warm it ? 
Come hearts. 

Then, freedom, should tyranny grasp his foul dart, 

Thou'lt find at thy breast should he send it, 
The home-loving patriot cling round thy heart, 

And still a true shield to defend it. 
Come hearts, of no patriot feeling bereft, 

Let this be the toast that is given : — 
"O ! here's to the dear, native land that we left, 

And here's to the land that we live in." 



What deduction from reason can ever be applied to 
love ? Love is a contradiction to all the elements of our 
ordinary nature. It makes the proud man meek ; the 
cheerful sad ; the high-spirited tame. 



1^6 JANE ROWLEY*S 

RECOMMENDED TO THE ATTENTION OF M. 

by a member of the anti-poking-your-nose- 

into-other-people's-business society. 

Wanted Immediately. 

Persons of fair character, age or sex immaterial, at a 
salary of twenty thousand dollars per annum, to mind 
their own business, and leave other people's alone ! Ap- 
plication with testimonials to be addressed to the secre- 
tary of the "Neglected Home Department," at the office 
of "The Woman's Suffrage Association." 



PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 

'Twas growin' dark so terrible fasht, 
When through a town up the mountain their pashed, 
A broth of a boy to his neck in the shnow ! 
As he walked, his shillalah he swung to and fro, 
Saying, " It's up to the top I am bound for to go, — 
Be-jabbers!" 

He looked mortal sad and his eye was as bright 
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther's night ; 
And niver a word that he said could ye tell, 
As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 
" It's up to the top of the mountain I'll go, 
Unless covered up by this bothersome shnow, — 
Be-jabbers ! " 



SCRAP BOOK. 137 

Through the windows he saw as he fhravelad along, 
The light of the candles and fires so warm ; 
But a big chunk of ice hung o'er his head ! 
Wid a shiver and groan — " By St. Patrick ! " he said, 
It's up to the very tip-top I will rush, 
And then if it falls, it's not meself it will crush, — 
Be-jabbers ! " 

"Whist a bit," said an ould man, whose hair was as 

white, 
As the shnow that fell down on that miserable night ; 
" Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad, 
Fur the night is so dark, and the walkin is bad." 
Bedad ! he'd not lisht to a word that was said, 
But he'd go to the top if he went on his head, — 
Be-jabbers ! 

A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to be kissed, 
Axed him would'nt he sthop, and how could he resist? 
And so shnapping his fingers and winking his eye, 
While shmiling upon her, he made this reply : — 
" Faith, I ment to kape on till I got to the top, 
But, as yer swate self has axed me, I may as well sthop, 
Be-jabbers ! " 

He shtopped all night and he shtopped all day, 
And ye must'n be axin whin he did go away ; 
For would'nt he be bastley gassoon 



138 jane rowley's 

To be lavin his darlint in the swate honeymoon ? 
Whin the ould man has peraties enough and to spare, 
Sure he moight as well shtay if he's comfortable there, — 
Be-jabbers ! " 



GRATTAN. 



Deep in the bosom of his bleeding land, 

Had sunk the bitter, barbed steel of wrong ; 
Her poor limbs charred and bruised by chain and 
thong, 

Seemed helpless, and the lips that once were bland 

With hopeful smile and song, could scarce command 
A feeble murmur, when arose a strong, 
Bold voice that called, and lo ! a seried throng 

Of stalwart sons strode up from every strand. 

Stricken and feeble was she when he came, 

But with bold, manly arms he folded her 
To the great heart that beat for her alone. 

And when again the evil and the shame 
Returned, to hold her still a sufferer, 

The great heart burst to hear her plaintive, pitious moan. 



You may wish to get a wife without a fault ; but what 
if the lady, after you find her, happens to be in want of 
a husband of the same character. 



SCRAP BOOK. I39 

LINES ON A SKULL. 

Some forty years ago the following poem was found in the London 
Morning Chronicle. Every effort was vainly made to discover the author, 
even to the offering of a reward of fifty guineas. All that ever transpired, 
was, that the poem in a fair clerkly hand was found near a skeleton of 
remarkable symmetry of form in the Museum of the Royal College of Sur- 
geons, Lincoln's Inn, London, and that the curator of the Museum sent it 
to the Morning Chronicle. 

Behold this ruin ! 'twas a skull, 

Once of etherial spirit full, 

This narrow cell was life's retreat, 

This space was thought's mysterious seat. 

What beauteous visions filled this spot, 

What dreams of pleasure long forgot! 

Nor hope, nor joy, nor love nor fear, 

Have left one trace or record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy, 

Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 

But start not at the dismal void, 

If once with love that eye employed ; 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be for ever bright, 

When stars and skies are sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung, 

The ready, swift and tempered tongue ; 

If falsehood's honey it disdained, 



140 jane Rowley's 

And when it could not praise was chained ; 
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, 
Yet gentle concord never broke ! 
This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
When time unveils eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? 
Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem, 
Can little now avail to them. 
But if the page of truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that waits on wealth and fame. 

Avails it, whether bare or shod, 
These feet the path of duty trod ? 
If from the bower of ease they fled, 
To seek affliction's humble shed, 
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to virtues's cot returned, 
These feet with angel's wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky. 



Hope is the sweetest friend that ever kept a distressed 
soul company ; it beguiles the tediousness of the way, — 
all the miseries of our pilgrimage. 



SCRAP BOOK. 141 

TRUE LOVE. 

Let not the marriage of true minds, 
Admit impediment. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove. 

Oh, no ! it is an ever fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his life be taken. 

Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheek, 
Within his bending sickle's compass come : 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never write — nor no man never loved. 

W. Shakespeare. 



KEEPING HIS WORD. 

" Only a penny a box," he said, 
But the gentleman turned away his head, 
As if he shrank from the squalid sight, 
Of the boy who stood in the fading light. 



142 JANE ROWLEYS 

"Oh, sir! " he stammered, "you cannot know,'' 
(And he brushed from his matches the flakes of snow, 
That the sudden tear might have chance to fall,) 
"Or I think — I think you would take them all. 

"Hungry and cold at our garret pane, 
Ruby will watch till I come again, 
Bringing the loaf. The sun has set, 
And he hasn't a crumb of breakfast yet. 

One penny, and then I can buy the bread," 
The gentleman stopped, "And you?" he said, 
"I? I can put up with them, hunger and cold, 
But Ruby is only five years old. 

"I promised our mother before she went, — 
She knew I would do it, — died content, — 
I promised her, sir, through best, through worst, 
I always would think of Ruby first." 

The gentleman paused at his open door, 

Such tales he had often heard before ; 

But he fumbled his purse in the twilight drear, — 

"I've nothing less than a shilling here." 

"Oh, sir, if you'll only take the pack, 
I'll bring you the change in a moment back ; 
Indeed, you may trust me ! " "Trust you? No ! 
But here is the shilling ; take it and go." 



SCRAP BOOK. 143 

The gentleman lolled in his easy chair, 
And watched his cigar smoke wreath in air, 
And smiled on his children, and rose to see 
The baby asleep on its mother's knee. 

"And now it is nine o'clock," he said, 
"Time that my darlings were all abed, 
Kiss me good night, and each be sure, 
When you're saying your prayers, remember the 
poor." 

Just then came a message — "A boy at the door," 
But e'er it was uttered, he stood in the door, 
Half breathless, bewildei-ed, and ragged and strange, 
"I'm Ruby, Mike's brother, I've brought you the 
change. 

" Mike's hurt, sir, 'twas dark, the snow made him 

blind, 
And he did not take notice the train was behind, 
Till he slipped on the track, and then it whizzed by, 
And he's home in the garret ; I think he will die. 

"Yet nothing would do him, sir, nothing would do, 
But out through the snow I must hurry to you ; 
Of his hurt he was certain you would'nt have heard, 
And so you might think he had broken his ■word.' 1 ' 1 



144 JANE ROWLEYS 

When the garret they entered, they saw 

Two arms, mangled, shapeless, outstretched on the 

straw, 
"You did it? — dear Ruby — God bless you !" he said, 
And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back and was dead. 

Harper's Magazine. 



Clocks may stop, hearts may cease to beat, but still 
time goes on, staying or accelerating its pace for none ; 
no prayers advance or delay its speed, though the sad 
and joyous count its strokes by seconds of a different 
length. 

Children. — How little do those who have grown up 
to man's estate, trouble themselves about the feelings of 
children. It would really seem as if they fancied that 
children were destitute of all those fine and delicate 
springs of emotion, which are recognized in mature life, 
and are the sources of all our joys and sorrows. It is 
time the grown-up world went to school to some one 
who has not forgotten the tender susceptibilities of child- 
hood, that it may learn to sympathize with the little 
sufferers. The germinating bud has within its folded 
recesses all the beauty and the fragrance of the flower ; 
the gentle distillations of heaven sighs sweetly in its se- 
cluded shrine, and the sunbeams fall there as soothingly 



SCRAP BOOK. 145 

as on the prouder petals that claim all to themselves. 
How many a sweet spirit withers beneath the blighting 
form of the un sympathizing guardian ; how many a one 
retires to weep in solitude, because it is not loved as it 
would be, and is not comprehended in its affection. We 
little think what arcana we read, when the words, "of 
such is the kingdom of heaven," pass our unheeded utter- 
ance. — Rufus Daws. 



Truth. — We never knew a boy or a man who from 
early life spoke truth and shunned a falsehood, that was 
not virtuous in all other respects, and who did not acquire 
and enjoy the confidence and esteem of society. Truth- 
fulness is one of the chief corner stones in a good and re- 
spectable character. Young man, never utter a false- 
hood ; never be tempted to depart from strict truth in all 
you say. False words come from a false heart, and a 
false heart breeds corruption that soon taints and spoils 
the whole character. 



If you wish to reform the world, begin by reforming 
yourself, and then devote your attention to reforming and 
improving the habits, manners and principles of the 
children and youth, who are next to come on the stage of 
action. 



Money. — A fish particularly difficult to catch. 



146 jane rowley's 

A BEAUTIFUL REFLECTION. 

It cannot be that earth is man's abiding place. It 
cannot be that our life is cast up by the ocean of eternity 
to float a moment upon its waves and sink into nothing- 
ness. Else why is it that the high and glorious inspira- 
tions which leap from the temple of our hearts, are for- 
ever wandering about unsatisfied ? Why is it that the 
rainbow and cloud come over us with a beauty that is 
not of earth, and then pass off and leave us to muse upon 
their faded loveliness? Why is it that the stars that hold 
their " festival around the midnight throne," are set above 
the grasp of our limited faculties, forever mocking us 
with their unapproachable glory? And, finally, why is 
it that brighter forms of human beauty are presented to 
our view, and then taken from us, leaving the thousand 
streams of our affections to flow back in Alpine torrents 
upon our hearts ? We are born for a higher destiny than 
that of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow never 
fades, where the stars will be spread out before us like 
islands that slumber in the ocean, and when the beautiful 
that begins here and passes before us like shadows, shall 
stay in our presence for ever. 



The man that dares traduce because he can with 
safety to himself is not a man. — Cowfier. 



SCRAP BOOK. 147 

ELEGANCE DOES NOT MAKE HOME. 

THEODORE PARKER. 

I never saw a garment too fine for a man or maid. 
There was never a chair too good for a cobbler, or cooper, 
or king to sit on ; never a house too fine to shelter a 
human head. These elements about us, the georgeous 
sky, the imperial sun, are not too good for the human 
race. Elegance fits man. But do we not value this of 
housekeeping a little more than it is worth, and some- 
times mortgage a home for the mahogany we would 
bring into it ? I had rather eat my dinner off the head of 
a barrel, or dress after the manner of John the Baptist in 
the wilderness, or sit on a block all my life, than con- 
sume all myself before I got to home, and take so much 
pains with the outside, that the inside was as hollow as 
an empty nut. Beauty is a great thing, but beauty of gar- 
ment, house and furniture is a very tawdry ornament 
compared to domestic love. All the elegance in the 
world will not make home, and I would give more 
for a spoonful of real hearty love, than for whole ship- 
loads of furniture, and all the georgeousness that all 
the upholsterers of the world could gather together. 



The three most difficult things are : to keep a secret, 
to forget an injury, and to make a good use of leisure. 



148 jane rowley's 

SONG. 

Shades of evening close not o'er us, 

Leave our lonely bark awhile, 
Morn, alas ! will not restore us 

Yonder dim and distant Isle, 
Still my fancy can discover, 

Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; 
Darker shadows round us hover, 

Isle of beauty fare-thee-well. 

'Tis the hour when happy faces 

Smile around the tapers light ; 
Who will fill our vacant places ? 

Who will sing our songs to-night? 
Through the mists that float above us, 

Faintly sounds the vesper bell, 
Like a voice from those who love us, 

Breathing softly, fare-thee-well. 

When the waves are round me breaking, 

As I pace the deck alone, 
And my eye in vain is seeking, 

Some green spot to rest upon, 
What would I not give to wander, 

Where my old companions dwell ; 
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, 

Isle of beauty fare-thee-well. 



SCRAP BOOK. 149 

THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

FATHER PROUT. 

With deep affection 
And recollection, 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood. 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder, 
Where'er I wonder, 
And thus grow fonder 

Sweet Cork of thee. 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming, 
Full many a clime in, 
Telling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine ; 
While at a glib rate, 
Brass tongues would vibrate, 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 



150 JANE ROWLEYS 

For memory dwelling, 
On each proud swelling, 
Of thy belfry knelling, 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon, 
Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling, 
Old Adrian's Mole in 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican ; 
And symbols glorious, 
Swinging uproarious, 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame. 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
O ! the bells of Shandon, 
Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and Kiosk, oh, 



SCRAP BOOK. 151 

In saint Sophia, 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air, 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summits 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom, 
I freely grant them, 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me ; 
'Tis the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



THE FRONT AND SIDE DOOR. 

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Every person's feelings have a front-door and side- 
door, by which they may be entered. The front-door 
is on the street. Some keep it always open ; some 
keep it latched ; some locked, some bolted with a chain 
that will let you peep in, but not get in ; and some 
nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This 
front-door leads into a passage which opens into an 
ante-room, and this into the interior apartments. The 
side-door opens at once into the sacred chambers. 



152 JANE ROWLEYS 

There is almost always one key to this side-door. 
This is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. 
Fathers, brothers, sisters and friends, often, but by no 
means so universally, have duplicates of it. The wed- 
ding ring conveys a right to one. Be very careful to 
whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. 
The fact of possessing one, renders those even who are 
dear to you very terrible at times. You can keep the 
world out from your front-door. Receive visitors only 
when you are ready for them ; but those of your own 
flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can 
come in at the side-door, if they will, at any hour and 
in any mood. Some of them have a scale of your 
whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of 
3 r our sensibilities in semitones, — touching the naked 
nerve-pulps as a pianist strikes the keys of his in- 
strument. I am satisfied that there are as great 
masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberge 
in their line of performance. Married life is the school 
in which the most accomplished artists in this depart- 
ment are found. A delicate woman is the best in- 
strument ; she has such a magnificent compass of 
sensibilities ! From the deep, inward moan which fol- 
lows pressure on the great nerve of right, to the sharp 
cry as the filaments of the taste are struck with a 
crushing sweep, ie a range which no other instrument 
possesses. A few exercises on it daily at home fit a 



SCRAP BOOK. 153 

man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refreshes 
him immensely as he returns from them. No stranger 
can get a great many notes of torture out of a human 
soul ; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, child, 
brother, sister, intimates. Be very careful to whom 
you give a side-door key ; too many have them already. 



Ask yourself before speaking evil of any one : First, 
is it right? second, is it kind? third, is it neces- 
sary? Half the truth may be a lie in the absence of 
the other half. 



A little explained, a little endured, a little passed over 
as a foible, and lo ! the rugged atoms will fit like smooth 
mosaic. 



Why is a disconted man like a watchful house-dog? 
Because he is a growler. 



What a precious thing is the perfume of a flower, 
which, without any loss to the plant, adheres to the hand 
of a friend, and follows him to recall the beauty of the 
flower he loves. 

The perfume of the soul is memory. It is the sweetest 
and most delicate part of the heart, that detaches itself to 
cling to another heart and follow it everywhere. 



154 JANE ROWLEYS 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

BY THEODORE o'HARA. 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

The brave and daring few. 
On fame's eternal camping ground, 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards with solemn round, 

the bivouac of the dead. 

No answer of the foe's advance, 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife, 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife, 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed, 
Their haughty banners trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud ; 
And plenteous funereal tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And their proud forms in battle gashed 

Are free from anguish now. 



SCRAP BOOK. 155 

The neighing steed, the flashing blade, 

The trumpet's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are past ; 
Not war's wild note, not glory's peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight, 
Those breasts that never more shall feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the dread northern hurricane, 

That sweeps his broad plateau, 
Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe ; 
Our heroes felt the shock, and leapt 

To meet them on the plain, 
And long the pitying sky hath wept 

Above our gallant slain. 

Sons of one consecrated ground, 

We must not slumber there, 
Where strangers' steps and tongues resound, 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from war his richest soil 

The ashes of her brave. 

So 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
Far from the gorey field ; 



156 jane rowley's 

Borne to a Spartan's mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield ; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred hearts and eyes watch by 

The heroe's sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 

Dear as the blood you gave, 
No impious footsteps here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While fame her record keeps, 
Or honor points the hallowed spot 

Where valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 

In deathless songs shall tell 
When many a banished age hath flown, 

The story how you fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 



Friendship. — Love, full fledged, waiting for a sunny 
day to fly. — Byron. 



SCRAP BOOK. 157 

THE SEA. 

BY BARRY CORNWALL. 

The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide region round ; 

It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 

I am where I would ever be ; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go. 

If a storm should come and wake the deep, 

What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 

I never was on the dull tame shore, 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
And a mother she was, and is to me, 
For I was born on the open sea. 

The winds were loud, and bleak the morn, 
The noisy hour when I was born ; 
The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. 
And the dolphin bared his back of gold, 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child. 



158 jane rowley's 

I never was on the dull tame shore, 

But I loved the deep sea more and more ; 

And backward flew to its billowy breast 

Like a child that seeketh its mother's breast. 

For a mother she was and is to me, 

For I was born on the open sea. 

I've lived since then in calm and strife, 
Full fifty winters a rover's life ; 
With wealth to spend and power to range, 
And never had sighed nor sought for change, 
And death, whenever it comes to me, 
Must come on the wild unbroken sea. 



ONLY A DOG. 

BY GOOSEBERRY GREEN. 

Only a dog ! that lies there dead, 
The soft eyes dim in his shaggy head ; 
Ah ! I see you smile as I bend to weep, 
With an aching heart o'er my dog's last sleep. 
But to me he was faithful, kind and true, 
The sincerest friend that ever I knew. 
So naught care I for your idle sneers, 
Or sarcastic jests at " a woman's tears," 
For I hold it much, as through life we plod, 
To win or loose, e'en the love of a dog. 



SCRAP BOOK. 159 

DECORATION DAY. 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER. 

" Bring flowers, sweet flowers," 

The poet said ; 
The lingering echo 

Is not dead. 
Through great highways — 

O'er bounding waves, 
Bring flowers to deck 

A million graves. 

Bring roses red, 

And lilies white, 
For fallen heroes 

In the fight. 
For soldier boys 

We love so well, 
Plant mignonette 

And Immortelle. 

The leader brave, 

Who faced the foe, 
Full many, many 

Sleep below. 
For such green mound, 

Or granite tomb, 
Bring balmy flowers 

In all their bloom. 



i6o jane rowley's 

Yea ! North and South, 

And East and West, 
Where'er a soldier 

Lies at rest. 
Whether the " blue," 

Or whether the " gray," 
Strew dewy garlands 

On this day. 

You who can give 

By your small mite, 
Bring from the fields 

The daisies white 
Sweet buttercups, 

And golden rod, 
To strew upon 

The sacred sod. 

The flags half mast, 

Against the sky, 
Throughout the land 

Are floating high. 
O'er heroes, who 

For honor bled 
And nobly died — 

Beloved dead ! 

Bring flowers, sweet flowers, 
From far and near. 



SCRAP BOOK. IOI 

Oh, men and maids 

And children dear ! 
Remember well 

Our nation's braves — 
Bring flowers to deck 

A million graves. 



THE MONEY QUESTION. 

The woman whose husband gives her a weekly allow- 
ance for household expenses, to be expended as she 
thinks proper, is generally happy and contented, and 
takes pride in her work. 

Wives, as a rule, dislike to ask their husbands for 
money ; they shrink from asking for the wherewithal to 
purchase boots, clothing and the common necessities of 
life ; it is neither agreeable nor pleasant to them and they 
should not be forced to do it. 

If they do their appointed work the money to carry 
it on should be freely offered, monthly, or weekly, as 
may be desired. 

Some husbands have seen how much their mothers 
have suffered for the want of money when their fathers 
were rich, and they profit by the fact, and give their 
wives a generous supply, never forcing them to become 
applicants for it, and by so doing they greatly increase 
their domestic happiness. 



1 62 jane rowley's 

Place confidence in a woman's ability to act, and she 
will fully repay it ; doubt her executive powers — refuse 
her responsibility — and you may rue it. 

Husbands do not pay enough attention to this subject 
of money. 

Many wives of the middle class have been accustomed 
to earn their own support, to purchase their own ward- 
robes before they were married. But after marriage all 
is changed ; they must ask for what they require rather 
than have it paid to them quarterly. 

At first their wants are few, or all supplied ; but one 
or two years alter their outlook, and it becomes very 
dreary. 

Can the husband understand this? he will tell you : 

"My wife has all she asks for," never dreaming how 
many days it requires to summon her courage to ask for 
necessities. 



Debt. — Running into debt often tempt people to tell 
lies. This made a great wit say, "Lying rides on debt's 
back." When you have contracted a debt you may think 
little of payment ; but creditors have better memories than 
debtors, — being a superstitious sect, great observers of 
days and times. 



True. — If one-half the people knew what the other 
said about them friendship would be entirely unknown. 



SCRAP BOOK- 1 63 

To be too independent with those we love is a mistake 
to be carefully avoided, for excessive independence is a 
barrier that checks sympathy as effectually as a rugged 
boulder stops the even flow of a limpid stream. To 
yield a little, taking and giving trifling services, not only 
afford mutual pleasure, but serves to draw closer the 
silken threads of love, the tention of which, even with 
our most intimate ones, is apt sometimes to slacken, need- 
ing careful watching lest the threads snap entirely. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

BY FRANCIS S. KEY. 

Oh ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at twilight's last gleaming? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous 
fight, 
O'er the rampart we watched, were so gallantly 
streaming, 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
there ; 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mist of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 



164 jane rowley's 

What is that which the breeze, o'er towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 

'Tis the star-spangled banner ! Oh, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band, who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollu- 
tion. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave, 

From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 



Sincerity, thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave thy 
onward path to take dissimutation's winding ways, though 
hell should gap and cry destruction at thee. — Lady Ran- 
dolph. 



A good book and a woman are excellent things tor 
those who know how to justly appreciate their value. 
There are men, however, who judge of both from the 
beauty of their covering. 



•SCRAP BOOK. 165 

HOME MUSIC. 

A house without music is like a nursery without 
children — silent, gloomy and desolate. Music is the 
harmonic soul of life, breathed or suggested everywhere 
in nature, and only absent from the lips and heart of those 
who are " fit for treason, stratagems and spoils." The 
influence of music is not only soothing and delightful to 
the ear, but is refining, purifying, and exalting to the 
mind and heart. 

The soul lives its rarest hours in an atmosphere of 
melody and song, and we contemplate Paradise not un- 
fittingly as realizing our supremest dreams of felicity, 
with its musical enchantments, its hymning serajohs, who 
"adore and burn" with extacies that can find utterance 
only in song. Universal experience attests that the habit- 
uation of childhood to pleasant music — as to the presence 
of flowers — is one of the secret means of softening down 
harsh tempers and evil passions in the bud. Children 
cannot grow up rude and boisterous in the midst of har- 
mony and beauty. Music at home is a recreation for the 
daughter and an attraction for the son. Make home 
bright, musical and joyous, and few will fly from it to 
the world's corrupting diversions and excitements. 



Home. — There's magic in that little word, it is a 
magic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never 
known beyond the hallowed limit. 



1 66 jane rowley's 

A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL. 

ROBERT EMMET. 

Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with 
dishonor. I would not have submitted to a foreign op- 
pressor, for the same reason that I would resist the present 
domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom, I would 
have fought on the threshold of my country, and its 
enemy should only enter by passing over my lifeless 
corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and 
who have subjected myself to the dangers of a jealous 
and watchful oppressor, and the bondage of the s^rave, 
only to give my countrymen their rights and my country 
its independence — am I to be loaded with calumny and 
not suffered to resent or repel it? No, God forbid ! 

If the spirit of the illustrious dead participate in the 
concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in their 
transitory life, O, evei'-dear and venerable shade of my 
departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the con- 
duct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a 
moment deviated from the principles of morality and 
patriotism which it was your care to instil into my 
youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my 
life. 

My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice — the 
blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial 
terrors that surround your victim ; it circulates warmly 



SCRAP BOOK. 167 

and unruffled through the channels which God created 
for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy 
for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven. 

Be ye patient ! I have but a few more words to say. I 
am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of life 
is nearly extinguished ; my race is run ; the grave opens 
to receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one 
request to ask at my departure from this world, it is the 
charity of its silence ! Let no man write my epitaph ; 
for as no man who knows my motives dares vindicate 
them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let 
them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my 
tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other 
men can do justice to my character. When my country 
takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and 
not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done. 



It is a very indiscreet and troublesome ambition which 
cares so much about fame ; about what the world says 
about us ; to be always looking in the face of others for 
approval. 

The world caresses the rich, however deficient in in- 
tellect or morals, and avoids the poor man of merit in 
the thread-bare coat. 



Prodigals live as if they had but a short time to exist, 
but misers as if they were never to die. 



1 68 jane Rowley's 

FROM "GOOD HOUSEKEEPING." 

The idea of marriage is the object of life — an end 
for which girls are to be trained appears often to be the 
very stumbling block in the way. If they are allowed to 
grow up thinking of marriage only as a possibility, as an 
incident in their lives which may or may not happen, 
will they not be better prepared for whatever fortune may 
have in store for them ? Freed from that anxiety about 
their future which characterizes many young women, 
there would seem to be a chance that they might be 
trained to be happy and to make others happy whether 
they were married or single While acknowledg- 
ing that a well-assorted marriage is, without doubt, the 
truest and best life for man or woman, can it be denied that 
an unhappy union is the greatest of sorrows in a woman's 
life, to say nothing of the train of evils which it brings 
upon others? If this idea that marriage is the great ob- 
ject — the necessity of woman's life — could be removed, 
there would certainly be more suitable and fortunate 
unions and fewer of the hasty, ill-considered, unwise 
ones. So long as two people who know little of each 
other's present character, tastes and habits, and nothing 
of each other's antecedents, will rashly join themselves 
for life after an acquaintance of a few weeks, so long 
must we look for the horrors of the newspapers, the 
scandals of the divorce courts, and the life-long martyrdom 



SCRAP BOOK. 169 

of those who bear the ill they cannot fly from. If girls 
did not learn from those about them, from much of their 
teaching, from the very atmosphere of society, that they 
were expected to marry somebody, they would hardly 
deem it possible to take such a risk as that of marriage 
without due consideration. They would wait for the 
certainty that it was the right thing to do, and that the 
right person for them had appeared. 

Let them feel that the end and aim of their lives is to 
be fit to be women and to fill their places as such in the 
world that so much needs both good women and good 
men, and there is no fear that they will not be quite equal 
to the situation if they find it best for their happiness to 
marry. 

Make other men's shipwreck thy sea mark. 



A SIMILE. 



In a Devonshire lane as I trotted along, 
'Tother day, much in want of a subject for song, 
Thinks I to myself, perhaps inspired by the rain, 
Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. 

In the first place, 'tis long ; and when once you are in it, 
It holds you as fast as a cage holds a linnet ; 
For however rough and dirty the road may be found, 
Drive forward you must, for there's no turning round. 



170 JANE ROWLEYS 

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, 
For two are the most that together can ride ; 
And e'en then 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, 
And jostle, and cross, and run foul of each other. 

For poverty greets them with mendicant looks, 
And care pushes by them with o'erladen crooks, 
And strife's jarring wheels strive between them to pass, 
And stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. 

Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, 
That they shut out the beauties around from the sight ; 
And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain, 
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter's day. 

The street was wet with the winter's snow, 
And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
Alone, uncared for, amid a throng 

Of human beings who passed her by, 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 



SCRAP BOOK. 1^1 

Down the street with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of school let out, 

Came the boys like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 

Past the woman, so old and gray, 
Hasten the children on their way. 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or horse's feet 
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.. 

At last came one of the merry troop — 
The gayest laddie of all the group. 

He paused beside her, and whispered low : 
" I'll help you across if you wish to go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and without a hurt or harm, 

He guided the trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

" She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
For all she's old, and poor and slow ; 



1^2 JANE ROWLEYS 

" And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
To help my mother, you understand, 

" If ever she's old, and poor, and gray, 
When her own dear boy is far away." 

And " somebody's mother" bowed low her head 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said 

Was, " God be kind to the noble boy 

Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy." 



GREAT VARIETIES. 

A great woman not imperious, 
A fair woman not vain, 
A woman of common talent not jealous, 
An accomplished woman who scorns to shine, 
Are four wonders great enough to be divided 
amongst the four quarters of the world. 



Hail, ye small sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do 
you make the road of it, like grace and beauty which 
beget inclinations, to love at first sight : 'tis ye that open 
this door and let the stranger in. 



Harmless mirth is the best cordial against the con- 
sumption of spirits ; wherefore jesting is not unlawful, if 
it trespass not in quantity, quality, or season. 



SCRAP BOOK. 173 

WOMAN'S FATE. 

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 

Oh ! be not thou cast down, because thy lot 

The glory of thy dream resembleth not ; 

Not for herself was woman first create, 

Nor yet to be man's idol, but his mate. 

Still, from his birth, his cradle bed she tends 

The first, the last, the faithfulest of friends ! 

Still finds her place in sickness or in woe, 

Humble to comfort, strong to undergo ; 

Still in the depth of weeping sorrow, tries 

To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes ! 

And doubt not though — (Although at times deceived 

Outraged, insulted, slandered, crushed, and grieved 

Too often made a victim or a toy. 

With years of sorrow, for an hour of joy ; 

To oft forgot 'midst pleasure's circling wiles, 

Or only valued for her rosy smiles) — 

That in the frank and generous heart of man, 

The place she holds accords with heaven's high plan ! 

Still, if from wandering sin reclaimed at all, 

He sees in her the angel of recall ; 

Still, in the sad and serious ills of life, 

Turns to the sister, mother, friend or wife ; 

Views with a heart of fond and trustful pride, 

His faithful partner by his calm fireside ; 



1 74 jane rowley's 

And oft, when barred of fortune's fickle grace, 
Leaves his faint head upon her kindly breast 
And owns her power to soothe him into rest. 
Owns what the gift of woman's love is worth 
To cheer his toils and trials upon earth ! 
Sure it is much, this delegated power, 
To be consoler of Man's heaviest hour ! 
The guardian angel of a life of care, 
Allowed to stand 'twixt him and his despair 
Such service may be made a holy task ; 
And more 'twere vain to hope, and vain to ask 
There, O loved and lovely be content 
And take thy lot with joy and sorrow blent. 
Judge none ; yet let thy share of conduct be, 
As knowing judgment shall be passed on thee, 
Here and hereafter ; so still undismayed, 
And guarded by the sweet thoughts tranquil shade, 
Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw 
Their light across thy path, while life was new, 
Thou shalt move sober on — expecting less, 
Therefore the more enjoying happiness. 



He that is not handsome at twenty, nor strong at 
thirty, nor rich at forty, nor wise at fifty, will never be 
handsome, strong, rich, or wise. 

He is wise who considers water his best and only 
drink. 



SCRAP BOOK. 175 

THE HEART. 

Oh ! give me the heart that with feeling is fraught, 
A heart that is pure, that with gold is unbought, 
A heart that's unchangeable, gentle, alive, 
That kindly can chide and another's ne'er rive. 

How happy the friends are, whose hearts are like this, 
Their parting is pain, but their meeting is bliss ; 
They feel what one-half of the world ne'er can know, 
Their friendship on earth is a heaven below. 

When self round the heart is too firmly entwined, 
It then leaves us nought but the wreck of a mind, 
And oh ! such a wreck, many choose for their lot ; 
Let theirs be the pleasure — I envy them not. 

Their friendship is coldness, their sympathy's gone, 
They inhabit a dark world, unheeded, unknown ; 
No sun, howe'er bright, can illumine their way, 
For no sun shines on them with an unclouded ray. 

Then give me a heart to which friendship is dear, 
That balm, which alone our sad moments can cheer — 
And brighten our way through this dark world of woe, 
Where a nominal friend is the deadliest foe. 



RESPECTABILITY. 

Pray, what do you mean by " Respectability?" 
Is is wisdom, or worth, sir, rank, or gentility — 



176 jane rowley's 

Is it rough sound sense or a manner refined — 

Is it kindness of heart or expansion of mind — 

Is it learning, or talent, or honor, or fame 

That you mean by that phrase (so expressive) to name ? 

No, no — these are not, sir, the things now in vogue, 

A respectable person, sir, may be a great rogue. 

A respectable person may be a great fool, 

Have lost even the little he picked up at school ; 

Be a glutton, a spendthrift, deep drown'd in debt, 

May forfeit his honor, his best friend forget : 

May be a great sycophant, tyrant, or knave, 

But a livery servant, at least he must have ; 

In vice he may vie with the vilest of sinners, 

But he must keep a cook, and give capital dinners. 



MONEY. 



The burly smith, with shoulders strong and broad, 
His sledge and hammer doth alternate ply ; 
The horse outside is waiting to be shod, 
While bellows roar, and sparks around him fly. 
The shoes are fashioned, punched, and fit to try, 
Then what does all this noise and sparks imply? 
The wish to gain some money. 

The carpenter is working at his bench, 
With chisel, mallet, mortising some wood ; 
He moves his auger round with steady wrench, 



SCRAP BOOK. 177 

1 

To aid the chisel making mortice good ; 
Time saving is by him well understood ; 
Then why this thought, this work, this earnest mood ? — 
The wish to gain some money. 

The sailor braves the dangers of the deep, 
The winds, the waves, the hidden rocks, the shore, 
The chilling cold, the toil, the want of sleep, 
These hardships, and privations — many more 
He knows full well are still for him in store, 
Then why not leave the ocean and its roar ? — 
The wish to gain some money. 

The lawyer, with his glib and ready tongue, 
Takes up his client's cause with full intent 
To make, if needful, right appear the wrong ; 
And to mislead, and also circumvent 
The jurors' minds — Can lawyers thus assent 
To wiles which honesty could not invent? — 
No doubt to earn some money. 

Behold the merchant full of care and toil ; 
His mind so much intent on wealth and gain, 
And fearful lest some accident should spoil 
His cherished hopes — his efforts be in vain. 
And all the plannings of that busy brain — 
Then why subject himself to so much pain ? 
His grasping love of money. 



17S jane rowley's 

Some statesmen also, Tory if not Whig : 
They surely look alone to country's good ; 
Though not obliged to weave, to forge, to dig, 
They sometimes show, alas ! a grasping mood, 
And strive for place, as humbler persons would. 
Then "why such striving, mean, and often rude? 
Simply to gain some money. 

And thus in every class and grade of men 
The love of money holds its potent sway, 
The smith, the sailor, lawyer, statesman, then 
Each longs for it in his peculiar way ; 
And yet, while often it leads men astray, 
Still of its widespread hold is no decay, 

This love by all for money. 

A Modern Thersites. 

Belfast, November, 1885. 



WHEN I AM DEAD. 

BY FRANKLIN P. DALY. 

When I am dead, 
I would not have the rude and gaping crowd 
Around me gather, and 'mid lamentation loud, 
Tell of my virtues, and with vain regret 
Bemoan my loss, and, leaving me, so soon forget. 
But I would have the few, the kindly heart, 



SCRAP BOOK. 179 

Who, when misfortune came, so nobly did their part, 
And oft by thoughtful deed their love express — 
These would I have, no more, no less — 
When I am dead ! 

When I am dead, 
I would not have the high and storied stone 
Placed o'er my grave, and then be left alone ; 
But I would have some living thing I once did love, 
Ere I did leave the joyous world above, 
Placed o'er me, and in each succeeding year 
I'd have my friends renew them, and oft linger near, 
With loving thoughts upon the dear one laid below, 
And talk of times departed long ago, 

When I am dead ! 



When I am dead 
Forgive — O, this I pray for more than all — 
The anguish I have caused, the deed beyond recall, 
Think kindly on me as I lie, so cold, so still, 
So poor a subject for thine angered ill. 
Think of some generous deed, some good word spoken, 
Of hearts bound up I found so sad and broken ; 
Think gently, when this last long rest is mine, 
And gaze upon my form with looks benign — 

When I am dead ! 



180 jane rowlky's 

THE FORGE. 

BY T. D. S. 
I. 

Oh, if you'd like to learn, in a cheap and cosy school, 
The ins and outs of politics, of home and foreign rule ; 
How nations should be governed, and how empires rise 

and fall, 
Drop into Paddy Gowan's forge, and there you'll hear it 

all. 

Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 

Blow, bellows, blow, 
Till the fire is spurting brightly . 

And the iron is aglow ; 
And his hammer on the anvil 

Comes ringing fast and free, 
And he clinches all his arguments 

With one, two, three ! 

II. 

By force of honest intellect, unhelped by bookish skill, 
He settles social questions that might puzzle Stuart Mill ; 
He knows how taxes should be raised, and how they 

should be spent, 
And how poor Ireland has been robbed, and where her 
money went. 

Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 
Blow, bellows, blow, 



SCRAP BOOK. l8l 

Till the fire is spurting brightly 

And the iron is aglow ; 
And his hammer on the anvil 

Comes ringing fast and free, 
And he clinches all his arguments 

With one, two, three ! 

III. 

He loves the Irish members who are fighting for the 

cause — 
Brave Sexton, and O'Connor, and Healy of the clause, 
But when they were in petticoats was he not heard to say 
The thing to do in Parliament was what they do to-day? 
Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 

Blow, bellows, blow. 
Till the fire is spurting brightly 

And the iron is aglow ; 
And his hammer on the anvil 
Comes ringing fast and free, 
And he clinches all his arguments 
With one, two, three ! 

IV. 

Oh, many a boy now working to set dear Erin free, 
In Ireland, and in England, and far beyond the sea, 
First learnt his patriot lessons and felt the proud desire 
Of freedom kindle in his soul by Paddy's flashing fire. 



1 82 jane rowley's 

Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 

Blow, bellows, blow, 
Till the fire is spurting brightly 

And the iron is aglow ; 
And his hammer on the anvil 

Comes ringing fast and free, 
And he clinches all his arguments 

With one, two, three ! 

V. 
Long life to Paddy Gowan ! God save him from all harm, 
God keep the spirit in his heart, the vigor in his arm ! 
God bless his roadside college ! for our schools, alas ! 

are few 
Where Ireland's cause has teachers so noble and so true ! 
Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 

Blow, bellows, blow, 
Till the fire is spurting brightly 

And the iron is aglow ; 
And his hammer on the anvil 
Comes ringing fast and free, 
And he clinches all his arguments 
With one, two, three. 



Labor. — Labor is life ! 'tis the still water faileth ; 
idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; keep the watch 
wound, or the dark rust assaileth. 



SCRAP BOOK. 183 

How to Talk Well. — The art of agreeable con- 
versation is one which all men admire and most men are 
anxious to learn. There are few subjects upon which 
young people oftener seek advice from those whose 
greater experience enables them to give wise counsel. 
It is frequently said of many kinds of teaching that ex- 
ample is better than precept ; but this is not so with 
regard to the art of conversation. You may hear a man 
talk with wonderful brilliancy, and yet talk no better 
yourself than you did before. You must have rules to 
observe rather than persons to imitate. Boswell accounts 
for the extraordinary accuracy and flow of language of 
Dr. Johnson by saying that " he had early laid it down 
as a fixed rule to do his best, on every occasion and in 
every company, to impart whatever he knew in the most 
forcible language he could put it in, and that, by constant 
practice, and never suffering any careless expressions to 
escape him, or attempting to deliver his thoughts with- 
out arranging them in the clearest manner, it became 
habitual to him." The course which was pursued by so 
eminent a scholar, whose conversational powers alone 
sufficed to make him celebrated, may well be followed 
by the youth of our day who wish to learn the much- 
coveted art of conversation. 



A friend is to a friend, sun and sun-flower ; at once he 
attracts and is attracted. 



184 jane Rowley's 

THE HARP OF O'CAROLAN. 

BY D. M. JONES. 

I. 

THE WELCOME. 

Forth of a silence weird and olden, 
But for her tears had been all golden, 

Whose cup of sorrow overran ; 
Tuned to the heart-beats of her bosom, 
Who, smiling, sees her hopes in blossom, 
They bring the harp of O'Carolan 
And they sing us the songs of O'Carolan ! 

Taken from Sorrow's weeping willows, 
To catch the spray of briny billows, 

Those|tears of joy space scarce can span ; 
Wakened by sea-winds westward blowing, 
Till all thy golden chords are glowing 
With the heart and soul of O'Carolan — 
Thrice welcome, Harp of O'Carolan ! 

Kissed by the sunburst round thee clinging, 
Proud of the shamrock, with it bringing 

Hope for the universal man, 
Come, Harp of Innisfail, the fearless, 
And fill the eyelids of the tearless 

With the righteous wrath of O'Carolan — 
With the joyous tears of O'Carolan ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 185 

In the New World's harbor kindly greeted, 

Where Music's soul is never cheated 
Of one sweet charm by blight or ban ; 

Thrilled with the strange and strong emotion 

That sways the soul this side the ocean, 
Thrice welcome, Harp of O'Carolan — 
The songs and the soul of O'Carolan ! 

II. 

THE FAREWELL. 

Farewell, brave Harp, to her returning 
For whom unnumbered hearts are yearning, 

Whose cup of joy too soon o'erran ; 
Oh ! if there be the least despairing 
Or drooping in her glance or bearing, 

Comfort her, Harp of O'Carolan — 

Kindle her courage, O'Carolan ! 

Lift up thy voice so lark-like loud, 

So clear, despite the passing cloud, 
A friendly sky she still may scan ; 

And, looking up, cease not to see 

The golden sun of Liberty, 

That kindled the soul of O'Carolan — 
The songs and the Harp of O'Carolan ! 

Harp of the brave, on Freedom's height 
We heard, with hers attuned aright ! 
Refuse the fires of hate to fan ; 



1 86 jane rowley's 

But be a fountain, cool and sweet, 

Amid the conflict's torrid heat, 

For thou art the harp of O'Carolan — 
And the song is the song of O'Carolan ! 

Lest her songs be sung by slavish rote, 

The passion native to thy note 

Lose not, echoed from clan to clan ! 

Be strains like thine the heavenly vent 

And healing of her discontent ; 

While calm-voiced Patience steadies the van 
Of her conquering cohorts, O'Carolan ! 



"GOD SAVE LIBERTY." 

BY J. J. M. 

Wake ! sons of Erin, wake ! 
Great freedom's cause uptake ! 

Your rights defend ! 
Stand in your new given power ! 
Stand in your manhood's dower ! 
Stand ! Though grim tyrants lower, 

To make you bend. 

Think ! Ye who till the ground ; 
And ye whose lives are bound, 
In labor's grove ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 187 

Whose hand hath wrenched the chain 
That fettered heart and brain ? 
Let not his toil be vain ! 
Nor ingrates prove ! 

Strange leaders bid for place : 
But let all hirelings grace 

The hireling crew ! 
We will like one agree, 
And trust our liberty 
With him who made us free, 

Old Gladstone true. 



It is not in the mountains, in the palaces of pride, 
That love, the winged wizard, is contented to abide, 
In meek and humble spirits, the truest love is found, 
As the lark that sings in Heaven, builds her nest upon 

the ground, 
His cradle is the lily, by the breath of autumn stirred 
For love is often shaken by the whispering of a word ; 
His smile is in the sunshine, and his voice is in the 

glade, 
Oh ! that winter should o'ertake it with its silence and 

its shade. 



The soul never assents to sin, and weeps with the 
angels when the form in which it dwells, violates the 
sacred obligations thus imposed upon it. 



I0O JANE ROWLEYS 

OH! FLY TO THE HILLS. 

BY WILLIAM GRAHAM. 

" Miss Janet Makinzie plighted her troth to the young advocate, as 
soon as he agreed to assume the white cockade, and she sent him forth to 
win her hand by perilling his own life in a contest, which to all except 
the enthusiastic, appeared desperate." 

Oh ! fly to the hills where our banner is borne, 
To float in the breezes and welcome the morn, 
"When its folds will unfurl to the breath of the sky, 
When thousands are panting to conquer or die, 
And when you return with your claymore and plaid, 
I will weave a love knot for your bonnie cockade. 

He knelt by his mistress, and vowed on that night 
By his hope of her love, to rush forth to the fight ; 
And he kissed her pale cheek as he faltered adieu ! 
While the tears of affection fell warm on the dew. 
And high beat the heart of the Jacobin maid 
As she prayed for success to his bonnie cockade. 

Oh ! love thou art nurtured in sorrow and tears, 
And the anguish of mortals thy pastime appears, 
While the maiden looked out for her lover in vain 
To sleep on her bosom, he slept with the slain, 
And never came back with his claymore and plaid 
From the grave where his love and allegiance were laid. 



SCRAP BOOK. 189 

ALLEN a' DALE. 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Allen a' Dale has no faggot for burning, 
Allen a' Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen a' Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
Yet Allen a' Dale has red gold for the winning. 
Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale, 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen a' Dale. 

The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
And he views his domains upon Arkendale side, 
The mere for his net, and the land for his game. 
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; 
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, 
Are less free to Lord Darce than Allen a' Dale. 

Allen a' Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 

Though his spear be as sharp, and his blade be as 

bright ; 
Allen a' Dale is no baron nor lord, 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word, 
And the best of our nobles their bonnets will veil, 
When at Rerecrass or Stanmore meets Allen a' Dale. 

Allen a' Dale to his wooing is come, 

The mother she asks of his house and his home, 

Though the castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill, 



190 jane rowley's 

My hall, quoth bold Allen, stands gallanter still. 
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, and its crescent so pale, 
And with all its bright spangles, said Allen a' Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was stone, 
They lifted the latch, and they bid him begone ; 
But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry ! 
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye, 
And she fled to the forest, to hear a love tale, 
And the youth it was told by was Allen a' Dale. 



FEMALE PURITY. 
All the influences which women enjoy in society — 
their right to the exercise of that maternal care which 
forms the first and most indelible species of education ; 
the wholesome restraint which they possess over the 
passions of mankind ; their power of protecting us when 
young, and cheering us when old, depend so entirely 
upon their personal purity and .the charm that it casts 
around them, that to insinuate a doubt of its real value 
is wilfully to remove the broadest corner-stone on which 
civil society rests, with all its benefits and all its com- 
forts. 

Dean Swift says, a woman may knit her stockings 
but not her brows ; she may darn her hose, but not her 
eyes ; curl her hair but not her lip ; she may thread her 
needle but not the public street. 



SCRAP BOOK. I9I 

GIVE ME THE HAND. 

Give me the hand that is warm, kind and ready, 
Give me the clasp that is calm, true, and steady. 
Give me the hand that will never deceive me, 
Give me the grasp that I aye may believe thee. 

Soft is the palm of the delicate woman ! 

Hard is the hand of the rough sturdy yeoman ! 

Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not — never ; 

Give me the grasp that is friendly for ever. 

Give me the hand that is true as a brother ; 
Give me the hand that has harmed not another ; 
Give me the hand that has never forsworn it, 
Give me the grasp that I aye may adore it. 

Lovely the palm of the fair, blue veined maiden ! 

Horny the hand of the workman o'erladen ! 

Lovely or ugly, it matters not — never ! 

Give me the grasp that is friendly for ever. 

Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty, 
Free as the breeze, and unshaken by party ; 
Let friendship give me the grasp that becomes her, 
Close as the twine of the vines in the summer. 

Give me the hand that is true as a brother ; 

Give me the hand that has wronged not another ! 

Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not — never ! 

Give me the hand that is friendly for ever. 



I92 JANE ROWLEYS 

ENDURE HARDSHIPS. 

As a gladiator trains the body so must we train the 
mind to self-sacrifice, '' to endure all things," to meet and 
overcome difficulty and danger. We must take the rough 
and thorny roads as well as the smooth and pleasant ; 
and portions of our daily duty at least must be hard and 
discouraging ; for the mind cannot be kept strong in per- 
petual sunshine only, and the most dangerous of all 
states is that of constantly recurring pleasure, ease, and 
prosperity. Most persons will find difficulties enough 
without seeking them ; let them not repine, but take them 
as a part of that educational discipline necessary to fit 
the mind to arrive at its highest good. 



How near to each other lie the dignity and debase- 
ment of the human understanding. Love instead of being 
a sentiment is a passion. Charity, ostentation. Religion, 
fanaticism. Eloquence, the desire of popular applause, 
and patriotism, ambition. Virtue is made for difficulties, 
and grows stronger and brighter for such trials. If a 
thing be not right, do it not ; if it be not true, speak it not. 



The true motives of our actions, like the real pipes 
of an organ, are usually concealed. But the gilded and 
the hollow pretext is pompously placed in the front for 
show. 



SCRAP BOOK. 193 

MORALITIES. 

What is love ? Alas ! 

'Tis a jest, a sigh, 
Full of sad and sunny tears, 

I know not why. 

What is war? a grave 

Where the soldiers die, 
Some for gain, or glory, some, 

They know not why. 

What is hope ? It is 

Life's divinest joy ; 
When all others vanish, that 

At last is by. 

What is joy ? Fawn 

That doth ever fly 
Till we touch't them at change, 

And says, good bye. 

What is life? a dream 

Full of visions high, 
Where we seek and never find 

Until we die. 

What is death? Ah ! me, 

Touch me not so nigh ! 
Shall I, may I, can I tell? 

Alas ! not I. 



194 JANE ROWLEYS 

THE ASPEN. 

There is a tradition that our Saviour's Cross was made of the wood 
of this tree, and that its leaves have thrill'd and quivered ever since. 

Daylight is dying, but the west 

Still with the pomp of sunset glows, 

And crimson clouds on mountain's breast, 
And tower, and tree, its radiance thown, 

While one by one in Eastern skies 
" The stars that usher evening rise." 

How deep, how holy, is the calm ! 

Each sound seems hush'd by magic spell, 
As if sweet peace, her honeyed balm 

Blent with each dew-drop as it fell. 
Would that the cares that man pursue, 

A pause like this of nature knew ; 
Yet in this deep tranquility, 

When e'en the thistle's down is still : 
Trembles yon towering aspen tree, 

Like one whose by-gone deeds of ill 
At hush of night, before him sweep 

To scare his dreams and " murder sleep." 

For oft in highland wilds, 'tis said, 

But truth now laughs at fancy's lore, 
That of this tree the cross was made 



SCRAP BOOK. I95 

Which erst the Lord of glory bore ; 
And of that deed its leaves confess 
E'er since a troubled conscienceness. 

We boast of clearer light ; but say- 
Hath science, in his lofty pride, 

For every legend swept away 

Some better, holier truth supplied? 

What hath she to the wanderer given 
To help him on his road to heaven ? 

Say who has gazed upon this tree 

With that strange legend in his mind, 

But inward turn'd his eye to see 
If answering feeling he could find 

A trembling for that guilt that gave 
His Saviour to the cross and grave? 

And who such glance did inward bend, 

But scorned the apathy and pride, 
Which made him slight that more than friend 

For him who bled, for him who died ; 
Nor pray'd his callous heart might prove 

What 'tis to tremble, weep, and love? 

The Spirit of the Wood. 



Envy is always fixed on something superior, and like 
a sore eye, is offended with every thing bright. 



196 jane rowley's 

NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. 

It is confidently reported that the King of the French is about to 
send a ship of war to St. Helena, to bring the remains of Napoleon to 
France, the English government having consented to that measure. 

Oh ! tear him not from the lonely spot — 
From the shade of the weeping tree ; 

Where round his ashes the wild wave dashes 
In the waste of the Southern sea. 

Like a bow unstrung when the fight was done, 
A bright lamp quenched in the burning, 

Is the mouldering bone 'neath that gray stone, 
And dust to its dust returning. 

In the grave is peace, there all troubles cease, 
There is peace for the weary head, 

From the griefs of earth, from the curse of birth, 
They invade not his quiet bed. 

On the stately gloom of a marble tomb, 

With trophies of war on it laid, 
Add to his glory, or blazen his story ! 

Let him rest with the quiet dead. 

Then oh ! touch him not, the poor exile's lot 
Was chequered by glory and woes ; 

Then now let him keep his home on the deep, 
France ! France ! let thy warrior repose. 



SCRAP BOOK. 197 

WE MEET IN CROWDS. 

BY MRS. C. B. WILSON. 

We meet in crowds ! who used to meet all lonely, 
Where the soft moonbeams trembling lit the shade, 

And for the vows we interchanged, now only 
Are the cold courtesies of fashion paid ! 

We meet in crowds, where empty mirth is lighting 
The flashing eye, but reaches not the heart ; 

Where pleasure brims the cup with smiles inviting, 
And lures her victims with a syren's art. 

We meet in crowds ! Oh how unlike the meeting 
Our bosom knew in those sweet bygone years ; 

When Time's swift pinions seemed on sunbeams fleeting, 
And youths' light footsteps trod alone on flowers. 

We meet in crowds ! — as strangers — cold and sadly, 
Who ne'er had met, nor e'er may meet again ; 

We part ! — and in each bosom, deeply, madly, 
Rankles the wound, that must for aye remain. 



Stranger ! for Jesus' sake forbear 
To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
Blessed be he that spares these stones 
And cursed be he that moves my bones. 

— Epitaph of Shakespeare. 



198 jane rowley's 

THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

BY BISHOP HEBER. 

The stranger's heart, oh ! wound it not, 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger hath no home with thee. 

Thou thinkest the vine's low rustling leaves, 
Glad music round thy household eves ; 
To him that voice has sorrow's tone, 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou thinkest it sweet, when friend with friend, 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then does the stranger's eye grow dim, 
Far, far are those that pray'd with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land, 
The voices of thy kindred band, 
Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



Flattery. — Princes love flatterers, but are not over- 
liberal in rewarding them. Some women, who can for- 
get a thousand kind services, because they are fair, and 
love their beauty above all things, never forget one's 
flattery, but still even love them best who deceive them 
most. 



SCRAP BOOK. 199 

GENTLE WORDS. 

A young rose in the summer time, 

Is beautiful to me, 
And glorious the many stars 

That glimmer in the sea ; 
But gentle words and loving hearts, 

And hands that clasp my own, 
Are better than the fairest flowers 

Or stars that ever shone. 

The sun may warm the grass to life, 

The dew the drooping flower, 
And eyes grow bright and watch the light 

Of Autumn's opening hour ; 
But words that breathe of tenderness, 

And smiles we know are true, 
Are warmer than the summer time, 

And brighter than the dew. 

It is not much the world can give, 

With all its subtle art, 
And gold and gems are not the things 

To satisfy the heart. 
But, oh ! if those that cluster round 

The altar and the hearth, 
Have gentle words and loving smiles, 

How beautiful is earth. 



200 JANE ROWLEYS 

THE TROOPER TO HIS MARE. 

BY CHARLES G. HALPINE (" MILES O'REILLY.") 

Sweet girl, that has borne me far and fast 

On pawing hoofs that were never loth, 
Our galop to-day may be the last 

For thee, or for me, or perhaps for both. 
As I tighten your girth do you nothing daunt? 

Do you catch the hint of our forming line ? 
And now the artillery moves to the front, 

Have you never a qualm, Bay Bess of mine? 

It is dainty to see you sidle and start 

As you move to the battle's cloudy marge, 
And to feel the swell of your wakening heart 

When our sonorous bugles sound a charge ; 
And the scream of the shell and the roar of the drum 

You feign to be frightened with roguish glance ; 
But up the green slopes where the bullets hum 

Coquettishly, darling, I've known you dance. 

Your skin is satin, your nostrils red, 

Your eyes are a bird's or a loving girl's ; 
And from delicate fetlock to stately head 

A throbbing vein cordage around you curls, 
O joy of my heart ! if you they slay, 

For triumph or rout I little care ; 
For there isn't in all the wide valley to-day 

Such a dear little bridlewise thoroughbred mare. 



SCRAP BOOK. 20I 

GOUGANA BARRA. 

This poem was written about the year 1826, by I. J. Callanan, a native 
of Cork. He died at Lisbon in 1829. and his grave was made, not by the 
"Calm Avonbue," in accordance with his fervent prayer, but by the banks 
of the Tagris— far away from the "deep valley'd Desmond." A volume 
of his poems was published soon after his death, and among them are 
many of merit, fully equal to the fine example we have quoted. 

There is a green island in lone Gougana Barra, 
Where allu of song rushes forth like an arrow ; 
In deep-valley'd Desmond a thousand wild fountains 
Come down to that lake, from their home in the moun- 
tains,. 

There grows the wild ash, and a time stricken willow 
Looks chiding down on the mirth of the billows, — 
As like some gay child that sad monitor scorning, 
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. 

And its zone of dark hills, oh ! to see them all brightning, 
When the tempest flings out his red banner of lightning, 
And the waters come down, 'mid the thunders deep 

rattle, 
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle ; 
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, 
And wildly from Mulloe the eagles are screaming, 
Oh ! where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, 
So sweet for a bard as that lone little Island ! 
How oft when the summer sun rested on Clare, 
And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivere, 



202 jane rowley's 

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, 
(And thought of the bards who, oft gathering together 
In the clefts of thy rocks, and the depths of thy heather, 
Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, 
As they raised their last song by the rush of thy water,) 
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion. 

High sons of the lyre ! Oh ! how proud was the feeling 
To dream while alone, through that solitude stealing ; 
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, 
I alone waked the strains of the harp from its slumber, 
And gleaned the grey legend that long had been slum- 
bering 
Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping, 
From the love that I felt for my country's sad story, 
When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory. 

Last bai'd of the free, was it mine to inherit, 

The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit ; 

With the wrongs which, like thee, to my own land have 

bound me, 
Did your mantle of song throw its radiance around me ; 
And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley, 
Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might liberty rally, 
But rouse thee, vain dreamer ! no fond fancy cherish, 
Thy vision of freedom in bloodshed must perish. 

I soon shall be gone — though my name may be spoken 
When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken ; 



SCRAP BOOK. 203 

Some minstrel will come in the Summer eve's gleaming", 
When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, 
To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, 
Where calm Avonbue seeks the kisses of ocean, 
And a wild wreathe to plant, from the bank of the river, 
O'er the heart and the harp that are silent forever. 



THE BLUSH. 
See how the blood rises in the cheek of yonder 
maiden ; I have thought that blushes are the pulse of 
virtuous feeling, and which being touched by the un- 
washen hand of lust or villany, doth beat thus highly, 
vet 'tis a healthful fever. 



Good Advice. — Never allow misfortune to make 
you selfish, but imitate the example of Fenelon, who, 
when his library was on fire, exclaimed, " God be praised 
that it is not the dwelling of a poor man." 



Kind words are amongst the brightest flowers of 
earth ; they convert the humblest home into a pai - adise ; 
therefore use them around the fireside circle. True 
politeness is perfect ease and freedom, it simply consists 
in treating others as you love to be treated yourself. 



Bigotry murders religion, to frighten fools with her 
ghost. 



2C>4 jane Rowley's 

WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

BY MISS LANDON. 

We might have been ! these are but common words, 
And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing ; 

They are the echo of those finer chords, 

Whose music life deplores when unavailing. 
We might have been. 

We might have been so happy ! says the child, 
Pent in the weary school-room during summer, 

When the green rushes 'mid the marshes wild, 
And rosy fruits attend the radiant roamer. 
We might have been. 

Alas ! how different from what we are 

Had we but known the bitter path before us ; 

But feelings, hopes, and fancies left afar, * 

What, in the wide, bleak world can e'er restore us? 
We might have been. 

It is the end of all human things, 

The end of all that wait on mortal seeking ; 

The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings, 
It is the cry of the worn heart while breaking. 
We might have been. 

A cold fatality attends on love, 

Too soon or else too late the heart beat quickens ; 



SCRAP BOOK. 205 

The star which is our fate springs up above, 

And we but say — while round the vapor thickens, 
We might have been. 

Thenceforth how much of the full heart must be 
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble ; 

A still voice utters, 'mid our misery, 

The worst to hear — because it must dissemble, 
We might have been. 

The future never renders to the past 

The young belief, entrusted to its keeping ; 

Inscribe one sentence — life's first truth and last, 
On the pale marble where our dust is sleeping, 
We might have been. 



Faith, Hope, and Charity, or Love, are three such 
inseparables that they have been likened to a plant, Faith 
being the root, Hope the upward rising stem, and Love 
the bright and glowing fruit. 



As a person's yes and no, so is all his character. A 
downright yes and no marks the firm ; a quick the rapid ; 
and a slow one a cautious or timid character. 



The brightest blaze of intelligence is of less value 
than the smartest spark of charity. Habit a second 
nature, which sometimes supersedes the first. 



206 jane rowley's 

A PEEP AT THE PUBLIC MAN. 

BY EARNEST JONES. 

I've met the young man, ardent all, 

Starting on fire at glory's call ; 

Have heard him, too, with patriot grace 

Refuse — yes ! even refuse a place ! 

And, yet invincible to bribe, 

Launch forth his noble diatribe ; 

Have heard him coughed and jested down, 

Alike in parliament and town ; 

For every one was held uncouth, 

Who smacked of honesty and truth, — 

Till drawn to fashion's shot-silk banners, 

False beauty's smiles, like snares were spread, 

Cold irony's keen arrows sped ; 

While bright before his eyes were set 

Gay ribbon, star, and coronet, 

All — all the hopes of joy and ease, 

At that one price alone — to please ! 

To please ? — to dress by fashion's glass, 

To serve the few and spurn the mass, 

Cease to be bold, and frank and hearty, 

Abandon country for a party ! 

While dignities were let for hire, 

The highest bidder still the buyer, 

Till little ot the man remained, 



SCRAP BOOK. 207 

And country lost what party gained. 

At first I have beheld him burn, 

Then stand, then waver, and then turn ! 

How few could brave, how few could shun 

The many bearing on the one ! 

Oh ! who the tempting could withstand? 

Who would not choose the safe left hand? 

Within the courtly harbor get 

And anchor with a coronet, 

Held by a ribbon from afar, 

And blazoned — Bondsman ! by a star. 



Breath — Air received into the lungs by many young 
men of fashion, for the important purpose of smoking 
cigars and whistling a tune. 

Charity — The only thing that we can give away 
without losing it. 

Prodigals live as if they had but a short time to 
exist ; but misers as if they were never to die. 

Lawyer — A learned gentleman who rescues your 
estate from your enemy and keeps it himself. 

Rural Felicity — Potatoes and turnips. 



He who combats his own evil fashions and desires 
enters into the severest battle of life ; and he who com- 
bats successfully obtains the greatest victory. 



208 jane rowley's 

INFLUENCES. 

Let all thine influences, e'en the least, 
Improve thy fellows, and take heed at home 
How eloquent are looks ! From them we draw 
Always our first impressions — oft our last. 
The child had marked its mother's loving smile 
Long ere it learned its father's lesson grave ; 
'Twas from its mother's fond approving look 
The boy became a painter. 

Finally : 
Of all thine influences take most heed 
Of thine unstudied ones. Full many a man 
Can with the lightning flash, that cannot shine 
With the mild sun ; but the impetuous storm 
Is valueless beside the silent dew. 
So the good deeds of a pure-hearted man 
Are the least portion of his influence, 
And that of which thyself art conscious least, 
May be most felt by others. The presence e'en 
Of a good man is no mean homily — 
Of a bad man, a curse. Shine like a star ; 
And glare not as a beacon. The white slime 
Betrays the toi'tuous track of the bold worm ; 
The ocean long retains the foamy trace 
Of the dividing keel, and shall man pass — 
The meanest man — through this vibrating world, 
Without his leaving, where he once had been, 



SCRAP ROOK. 209 

His footprint, deep and all indelible ! 
In thy worn track across the heath of life 
Full many an after traveller will tread. 
See that thou lead him not away from God, 
But prove a certain pioneer to heaven. 



Though the prize of the "Golden Violet" was not awarded to the 
following poem, which was written on the occasion of the late Fete Cham- 
petre in the Botanic Gardens, we think the fair judges must have had 
some difficulty in finding another piece of equal merit. 

THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS. 

The gay Daffodil once, an amorous blade, 

Stole out of his bed in the dark, 
And waking his man, Ragged Robin, he strayed 
To breathe forth his vows to a Voilet maid 

That lived in a neighboring park. 

A spiteful old Nettle Aunt, frowned on their love, 
But Daffy, who smiled at her power, 

A Shepherd's Purse slipped in the nurse's Fox-glove, 
Then up Jacob's Ladder he flew to his love, 

And into the young virgin's bower. 

The Maiden's Blush Rose, and she seem'd all dis- 
mayed, 

Attired in her White Lady-Smock, 
She called Mignonette, but the sly little jade 
That instant was hearing a sweet serenade 

From the lips of a tall Hollyhock. 



2IO JANE ROWLEYS 

The Pheasant's Eye — always a mischievous wight 
For spying out something not good, 

Avowed that he peeped through the keyhole that 
night, 

When clearly he saw by a glow-worm's light 
Their two faces under a Hood. 

This tale spread about through the busy parterre, 

Miss Columbine turned up her nose, 
The proud Lady Lavender said, with a stare, 
That her friend, Mary Gold, had been heard to 
declare, 
" The creature had toy'd with the Rose." 

Each Sage looked severe, and each Coxcomb look'd 

When Daffy, to make her mind easy, 
Miss Violet married, one morning in May, 
And sure as you live, before next Lady Day 

She'll bring him a Michalmas Daisy. 



A good education is a better safeguard for liberty 
than a standing army or severe laws. 



Friendship is a silent gentleman, and makes no parade ; 
the true heart dances no hornpipe on the tongue. 



SCRAr BOOK. 211 



STANZA. 



Barbara, thou art gone to rest, 
Why should we weep o'er thee? 

Light the turf lies on thy breast, 
Soft the winds breath o'er thee. 

Here w r ithin thy native clay, 

Calmly thou art sleeping ; 
Safer, happier, far than they 

Who are o'er thee weeping. 

Pleasant is thy lowly bed, 
Close to those that love thee ; 

Trees 'neath which thy childhood played, 
Gently waving o'er thee. 

Hark the thrush, how sweet his lay ! 

See the flowers how blooming ! 
" Weep not for the dead," they say, 

Though in earth consuming. 

" Weep not for her — she is gone 
Where no cares can move her ; 

All her earthly labor done, 
All her troubles over. 

" Weep not — she has found a home, 

Where no sorrow paineth ; 
Sin, nor tears, nor terror comes, 

Where a Saviour reigneth." 



'12 JANE ROWLEYS 

THE EASTERN WOMAN. 

BY MR. MILNES. 

Behind the lattice, closely laced, 

With filagree of choice design, 
Behind the veil whose depth is traced 

By many a complicated line, — 
Behind the lofty garden wall, 

Where stranger face can ne'er surprise 
That inner world, her all-in-all, 

The Eastern Woman lives and dies. 

Husband and children, round her draw 

The narrow circle where she dwells ; 
His will the simple perfect law, 

That scarce with joy her mind molest. 
Their birth and tutelage, the ground, 

And meaning of her life on earth, 
She knows not elsewhere could be found 

The measure of a woman's worth. 

If young and beautiful, she dwells 

An idol in a secret shrine, 
Where one high priest alone dispels 

The solitude of charms divine, 
And in his happiness she lives, 

And in his honor has her own, 



SCRAP BOOK. 

And dreams not that the love she gives 
Can be too much for him alone. 

Within the gay Kiosk reclined, 

Above the scent of lemon groves, 
Where bubbling fountains woo the wind, 

And birds make music to their loves. 
She lives a kind of fairy life 

In sisterhood with fruits and flowers, 
Unconscious of the outward strife 

That wear the palpitating hours. 

And when maturer duties. 

In pleasure's and in passion's place. 
Her duteous loyalty supplies 

The presence of departed grace ; 
So hopes she by untiring faith 

To win the bliss, to share with him 
Those glories of celestial youth 

That time can never taint or dim. 

Thus in the ever-closed harem, 

As in the open Western world, 
Sheds womanhood her starry gleam 

Over our beings' busy foam ; 
Through latitudes of varying faith 

Thus trace we still her mission sure, 
To lighten life, to sweeten death, 

And all for others to endure. 



214 JANE ROWLEYS 

WORTH KNOWING. 
A man never forgives the woman who has deliber- 
ately exerted the winning powers of her sex to deceive 
him. Wound his tenderness, arouse his jealousy, over- 
whelm him with reproaches, and he may overlook and 
excuse all. But make him the dupe of any design, let 
him feel that you have coldly spread out your fascinations 
for a selfish purpose, and he is lost to you forever ; even 
if his heart could return to its allegiance it would scarcely 
be worth having. 



CHARACTER IS ESSENTIAL TO HAPPINESS. 

Without a good character happiness is never known ; 
all that exalts, ennobles, embelishes, and dignifies 
humanity is blended in the beauty and the glory of a 
truly genuine character. All the treasures of ten thou- 
sand worlds will not compare in value with one pure 
heart for the production of all that is satisfying and 
blessed. They will not purchase peace, nor joy, nor 
sacred rest, nor the sweet tranquility of an unsullied 
conscience, nor one single moment's real bliss. They 
can never be exchanged for those golden gloried virtues 
that blossom all over a good character like the blossoms 
on a thick bed of roses, and which are as rich in the 
sweet incense that the heart loves most as the flowers are 
in refreshing fragrance. The youth who places a proper 



SCRAP BOOK. 215 

estimate upon a good character has learned a lesson that 
is more valuable to him than any thing else possibly can 
be. He has learned the source of his purest joys. But 
the happiness and blessedness of a good character are 
not confined to the sunny chambers of its possessor. 
Character is catching ; if one has good character, he 
gives something of its goodness to all with whom he 
associates. If his heart is radiant with the light of vir- 
tue, that light gets out and shines in upon the heart of 
others. 



The spirit of politeness consists in giving such atten- 
tion to our manners and language that those around us 
are left content with us and themselves. 



SONG. 
They saw that I was fair and bright, 

And bore me far away ; 
Within the Sultan's halls of light 

A glittering wretch to stay. 
They bore me o'er the dreary sea, 

Where the dark wild billows foam, 
Nor heard the sigh I heav'd for thee 

My own, my childhood's home. 

They deck my arms with jewels rare, 
That glitter in the sun, 



2x6 jane rowley's 

And braid with pearls my long black hair, 

I sigh when all is done. 
I'd give them all for one bright hour, 

Free and unwatched to roam, 
I'd give them all for one sweet flower, 

From thee, my childhood's home. 

They bring my low toned harp, and bid 

My voice the notes prolong, 
And oft my soul is harshly chid, 

When tears succeed to song. 
Alas ! my lips can sing no more, 

When o'er my spirit come 
The strains I heard in thee of yore, 

My own, my childhood's home. 



"MOLL" PITCHER AT MONMOUTH. 

So you ask me for a story of the battle days of yore, 
Ere our country's flag triumphant waved aloft from shore 

to shore. 
You have read of Concord's struggle, of the fight at 

Bunker Hill, 
How our brave men went to battle, bloody graves too 

soon to fill ; 
You have read the thrilling story of the ride of Paul 

Revere, 



SCllAP BOOK. 21^ 

When all hearts were filled with anguish, and war's 

gloomy cloud was near ; 
But there is another story, braver one no man can tell, — 
How "Moll" Pitcher fought at Monmouth, when her 

husband bleeding fell ; 
And in all the tales of daring on the storied page enrolled, 
You can find no nobler record than ''Moll" Pitcher's life 

has told. 

She was one of many women, who, in Freedom's dark- 
est day, 

Left the joys of home behind them, dared the battle- 
field's array, 

Trembled not when war's dread thunder pierced the still 
and pulseless air, 

Trembled not when faint hearts listened to the music of 
despair ; 

Whispered comfort to the dying, closed the pale lips of 
the dead, 

While the angry bullets hissed their solemn requiem, 
overhead. 

From far Erin's isle of sorrow to our shores she cames 

a bride, 
With her husband, strong in hope and manly vigor by 

her side ; 
'Twas a tyrant hand that forced them from their dear old 

island home, 



2i8 jane rowley's 

Far from kin, and graves of kindred, in our foreign land 
to roam. 

Well they labored, ne'er forgetting all their sorrows of 

the past ; 
And when war's dread clarion sounded, borne upon the 

northern blast, 
Side by side they went to battle, to engage the English 

foe, 
Who had made their land an outcast among nations long 

ago. 

Long and loud the battle thundered on the slopes of 
Mommouth town, 

And a hail of leaden fury mowed brave friend and foe- 
man down. 

To and fro the long ranks surging, like the billows of the 
main, 

With the wreck of human valor, strewed the hillside and 
the plain. 

There beside his smoking cannon, gallant Pitcher plied 

him well, 
Till the deadly bullet pierced him, — at his post he 

bravely fell. 
In that waving line of battle there was none his place to 

fill, 



SCRAP BOOK. 2IG 

And the gun that shrieked death's message, like its 
master's heart, was still. 

" Bear it back," the chieftain shouted, " we have none to 

man it now." 
There was sadness in his bidding, there was gloom upon 

his brow ; 
'Twas an hour when brave hearts trembled for the out- 
come of the fight, 
And when many men looked sadly for the coming of the 

night. 
In that hour of grief and sorrow, in the battle's fiercest 

flame, 
To the front, with eyes enkindled, then " Moll " Pitcher 

swiftly came ; 
She had seen her husband perish in the thickest of the 

fight, 
And the lips that whispered love, she sees now cold and 

ghastly white. 
Does she falter as she sees him with his pale face lving 

low ? 

Does she falter as she gazes on his life blood's ruddy 

glow ? 
'Tis a time for woman's weeping — has she not a woman's 

heart ? 
Ah, brave heroine, she forces back the tears that fain 

would start ! 



220 JANE ROWLEY S 

Pausing not for idle weeping — slowly turned she from 

her dead, — 
" I will take my husband's place, sir, and avenge his 

death," she said. 

All day long the sound of battle thundered on the Sab- 
bath air, — 

Shouts of living, groans of dying, death and sorrow 
everywhere ; 

All day long beside the cannon brave "Moll" Pitcher 
wrought her part, 

While the shot that killed her husband deeply sank with- 
in her heart. 

Well did she avenge her dearest on the bloody field that 
day; 

And when Night climbed up the heavens, treading stars 
along her way, 

When the sound of strife was ended, and the day's red 
work was done, 

Then, and not till then, " Moll " Pitcher turned to mourn 
her dearest one. 



O my children, as you gather in your pleasant homes to- 
night, 
And enjoy the many blessings that now make your lives 

so bright, 
Treasure well your country's freedom — fair Columbia's 

noblest boast — 



SCRAP BOOK. 221 

Guard it well — no one can tell )'Ou all the precious blood 

it cost ; 
And pray God that he may give us blessed peace from 

shore to shore. 
And that in our land the cannon's voice shall tell of war 

no more. 

Paul M. Russell. 
Abjngton, Mass. 



HENRY WARD BEECHER, PREACHER, PAT- 
RIOT, PHILANTHROPIST. 

Like a fountain that upsprings, 

In a desert wild and drear, 
Like a clarion note that rings 

Through the fastnesses of fear : 

Like a fortress on a rock, 

Set to guard a wide domain, 
Sheltering the affrighted flock 

When Destruction sweeps the plain ; 

Like a storm whose grandeur wild 
Takes its way at heaven's behest ; 

Like a Samson undefiled, 
To Untruth a fatal guest : 

Thus, with thoughts that flame and soar, 
Thus, with spirit-weaponed hand. 



222 jane rowley's 

For dear peace and righteous war, 
Stood our preacher in the land. 

Gracious nature, graceful art, 

Wove for him their blended crown ; 

He could bless with brimming heart, 
He could call God's thunder down. 

Bitter woes of humankind ! 

Sin and sorrow, grief and wrong, 
Was he to your beckoning blind ? 

Did he slight you in his song? 

And the mystic things of God 
That we dimly apprehend, 

Did he tread them, roughly shod, 
Shatter beauties without end ? 

I remember well the thrill 
Multitudes were glad to share 

When the solemn aisles did fill 
With the music of his prayer ; 

With his sermon wisely planned ; 

Reasoned with a master's might ; 
Faith's illuminating hand 

Touched its sentences with light. 

That we had him is a boon 

That commands a song of praise : 



SCRAP BOOK. 223 

That we lose him oversoon 
Is a grief for all our days. 

Having? Losing? All those years 

Pregnant with celestial fire ; 
Can we quench them with our tears 

Like a warrior's funeral pyre ? 

No, those treasures dearly bought 

Are beyond the reach of fate ; 
They are builded in our thought, 

They are welded in our state. 

On the solemn judgment mount, 
He, methinks, may fearless stand. 

For the final dread account, 
With his record in his hand. 

A great army would attest 

The true succor that he gave 
To the poor God loveth best, 

To the woman, to the slave ! 

He once more may fitly pray 

If a prayer can sound in heaven : 
"Be God's help to me this day, 

As the help that I have given." 

Julia Ward Howe, 



324 JANE ROWLEYS 

THE IVY. 

A welcome to the ivy, and a blessing on its leaves, 
That spread their cheerful branches round when barren 

nature grieves. 
A welcome to the friendly plant that will not go astray, 
Though crumbling walls are sinking into ruin and decay. 
The relics of antiquity — the halls of feudal power, 
Behold their faithful monitor, on turret, wall and tower ; 
And when unto her lover waved the scarf of lady fair, 
The roving edge of time instead, behold the ivy there ! 

A welcome to the ivy, for it speaks of friendship true, 
That lingers to the last around the frabric where it grew, 
Though tower and turret moulder, yet the ivy still is 

green, 
And mirrors to the present those events that once have 

been. 
We liken it in summer, when the dew its tendrils deck, 
To the child that hung in confidence around its mother's 

neck, 
But when in frosty winter time, it shelters from the 

blast, 
It's like indeed, a woman, who proves constant to the 

last. 

The soul, too, hath its ivy in the shadows of the past 
That round the broken heart will cling in freshness to the 
last. 



SCRAP BOOK. 225 

The memory of by-gone days, when love and hope were 

youug, 
[s but the stem that o'er some tomb its ivy leaves had 

flung. 
Our eyes that once beamed bright on us, in after years 

we dwell, 
And phantom voices speak again, in tones we loved full 

well ; 
But still those happy dreams with which we would not 

wish to part, 
Are proofs that mental ivy grows around the ruined 

heart. 



WHAT IS HOPE? 

What is Hope? — 'tis a sweet feeling 
An op'ning flower, forever revealing, 

Some visionary hue. 
It bears the wandering thoughts on high- 
It stems the tear — the rising sigh — 
And points where joys immortal lie, 

Hid from the scoffer's view. 

What is Hope ? — a peaceful stream, 
Refreshing life's e'er wasting stream, 
And fertilizing love ; 



326 jane rowley's 

A planet 'mid the murkiest night, 
A smile, when adverse storms affright 
Away the glad hours of young delight, 
Sent from above. 

What is Hope ? — a verdant spot, 
Where all our sorrows are forgot, 

A meteor 'mid the gloom ; 
A spring upon the sultry plain, 
A life-skiff on the boistrous main, — 
An April's breath, a summer's rain, 

A blossom born to bloom. 

What is Hope ? — A bliss that springs 
Spontaneously, when coldness wrings 

The ever flexile soul. 
A sacred boon — the gift of heaven, 
To all earth's suffering offspring given 
By time, nor scene, nor change e'er riven, 

As years their courses roll. 



The Fearful Man. — He who dreads giving light to 
the people, is like a man who builds a house without 
windows, for fear of lightning. You cannot fathom your 
mind ; there is a well of thought there which has no 
bottom. The more you draw from it, the more clear 
and plentiful it will be. 



SCRAP BOOK. 227 

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

'Twas in an old oak chamber 

And some laughing girls were there, 
Who braided orange blossoms 

In a blushing playmate's hair. 
A snowy veil they o'er her cast, 

And led her to the door ; 
She left that old oak chamber — 

Her girlhood's time was o'er ; 
And oh ! she looked so beautiful 

Amidst her hopes and fears, 
With her smiles that burst like sunshine 

Through many a shining tear ; 
Methought she like a lily seemed, 

Which floats on some bright stream. 
How blest was I ! that bride was mine — 

But only in a dream. 

It might have been. 

As she left her mother's home, 

The village chimes were heard, 
Mingling with the scent of flowers, 

And voice of many a bird. 
The young came forth from every porch 

To see her as she passed ; 
The old to bless her gentle face, 

And look, perhaps, their last. 



228 jane rowley's 

Then round the altar's rails we stood ; 

And then she vowed, through life, 
To cling in weal, to cling in woe ; 

The girl became a wife ! 
Oh ! day for which the heart long yearned, 

Burst in that vision's gleam — 
My first, my only love, was mine — 

Was mine but in a dream. 

It might have been. 
The eye from dreary wastes delights 

To gaze on spots that 're green ; 
So through my troubled life love I 

To thought bring back that dream. 
Its bare remembrance softens yet 

The draught in sorrow's glass — 
Though I can never dare to hope 

That dream will come to pass. 
My falsehood wrung her loving heart 

And faded her fair brow ; 
But has she not been well avenged 

By that which parts us now ; 
I live to feel I love her still, 

Though cold to all I seem ; 
Had I been true how well I know 

What would have been — no dream. 
It might have been. 

J. Storehouse- 



SCRAP BOOK. 229 



THE OAK TREE. 



In childhood's bright morn, ere I quitted my home, 
I planted an acorn in sport at the door ; 
Then for many a year 'twas my fortune to roam, 
And revisit the scenes of my childhood no more. 

When next I returned to my dear native cot, 
Youth advancing to manhood was fearless and gay, 
And a vigorous sapling that rose on the spot, 
Told alone of the years that had glided away. 

Many more rolled along amid life's changing scenes 
Ere the home of my childhood again I could see. 
Then a wide-spreading oak overshadowed the green, 
And the gloom that it spread was congenial to me. 

On the tender young plant I had carved a loved name, 
When I last stood beside it unwilling to part, 
The name of the false one remains on the stem, 
And I feel it, alas ! written still on my heart. 

When in youthful devotion the letters I drew 
The friend of my bosom stood smiling the while ; 
'Twas he stole my bride, and the scene, when I view, 
Like a spectre it haunts me — that treacherous smile. 

But 'tis past, and beneath the old oak is my seat, 

While the shrill winds of autumn the sere branches wave, 

I gaze on the leaves as they fall at my feet, 

And feel that ere long they will fall on my grave. 



23O JANE ROWLEYS 

THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 

Is yonder little snowy dome 

The sacred shrine, the silent tomb, 

Where thinking strangers love to come, 

Where genius mourns, 
The last — the solitary home 

Of thee, poor Burns ? 

Yes — yes, that dome adorns thy bed, 
'Twas given by those who scarcely bread 
When living gave thee — not a shed 

To hide thy wants ; 
But now would o'er thy head 

Build monuments. 

The little spot is thine. And who 
Shall turn thee from thy tenure now ? 
Thy lease is long, thy landlord true. 

Thy troubles cease. 
The great can have no more than thou 

From heaven's lease. 

Swan of the Nithe ! thy wing was light, 
Thy plume was whitest of the white, 
But wild and wayward was thy flight 

From wave to wave. 
One course was thine, wayward and bright, 

E'en to thy grave. 



SCRAP BOOK. 231 

Swan of the Nithe ! If aught in thee 
Sullied thy brightness, none should see 
The blemish. Men should view, like me, 

Thy life's short dream, 
And let thy faults, like swan's feet, be 

Sunk in the stream. 



TSAR OLEG. 



Tsar Oleg was riding through holy Kieff 

With the bright flashing trooping spear and shield, 

And his loving people bent low where he passed, 
As a wind sweeps over the full-ripe field. 

When with staff upheld in the swaying throng, 

The royal Soothsayer stood in the way, 
And he cried, " Beware ! Death shall smite thee, O king, 

From the milk-white steed thou bestridest to-day !" 

Tsar Oleg he pondered and mused awhile, 
And anon he alit from his gallant steed — 

" An' if this must be, I will ride thee no more, 
Go, lead him, ye grooms, to some sunny mead." 

When a herald came out of the Grecian bounds, 
And for tribute refused blew a challenge of war, 

Tsar Oleg, he leaped on a berry-brown steed, 
And led his hosts to the southward afar. 



2^2 JANE ROWLEYS 

Till he girdled the Bosphorus-gazing walls, 
And made the Caesars bow down to fate, 

And departing, he said, " Be forever a mark !" 
And he fixed his shield on the city's gate. 

And in triumph to holy Kieff he returned, 
With hostages, plunder and martial spoils, 

And he said in his heart, "We have fought, we have 
won, 
We will rest now in glory from warlike toils." 

When he sudden remembered the warning voice 

That smote his ears ere he rode to war, 
And he bade the Soothsayer before him stand' — 

" How twinkles, O prophet, my fateful star? 

4 ' How prances the fateful and baleful steed ? 

Will he neigh, will he leap to the trumpet still ?" 
" O, my liege, nevermore ; for these seven years' wind 

Hath his bones all bleached upon yon green hill." 

Up rose Tsar Oleg, and called for his horse, 

And he followed the seer to that south-sloping lea — 

He went gyved and guarded that Soothsayer gray, 
And yet with a steady, proud step walked he. 

And the king saw the bones of his milk-white steed, 
Where the tops of the deep grass rose and fell, 

And the silver-shod hoofs and the bridle of gold, 
And the golden stirrups, he knew them well. 



SCRAP BOOK. 233 

And he set his foot on the hollow skull, — 

While his nobles stood round him with bated breath — 
And he asked, with scorning, " Thou prophet of ills, 

Comes hurt from a carcass, or death from death?" 

And he spake to his guards, " Let the false prophet die !" 
11 The fates know me royal," he thought in his pride, 

When lo ! from the skull sprang an adder fang'd, 
And stilled with its venom his heart's high tide. 

J. J. Kennealy. 



SUCCESS IN LIFE. 

Without unremitting labor, success in life, whatever 
our occupation, is impossible. A fortune is not made 
without toil, and money earned comes to few. The 
habitual loiterer never brings anything to pass. The 
young men you see lounging around, waiting for the 
weather to change before they go to work, break down 
before they start. Ability and willingness to labor are 
the two great conditions to success. It is .useless to work 
an electric machine in a vacuum ; but the air may be 
full of electricity, and still you can draw no spark until 
you turn the machine. The beautiful statue may exist in 
the artist's brain, and it may also be said in a certain 
sense to exist in the marble block that stands before him ; 
but he must brinjr forth his brains and his hands to bear 



234 jane rowley's 

upon the marble, and work hard and long in order to 
produce any practical result. Success also depends in a 
good measure upon the man's promptness to take advan- 
tage of the rise of the tide. A great deal of what we 
call luck is nothing more nor less than this. It is the 
man v/ho keeps his eyes open and his hands out of his 
pockets that succeeds. " I missed my chance," exclaims 
the disappointed man when he sees another, more elert, 
catch eagerly at the opportunity. But something more 
than elertness is needed ; we must know how to avail 
ourselves of the emergenc}'. An elastic temperament, 
which never seems to recognize the fact of defeat, or for- 
gets it at once, and begins the work over again, is very 
likely to ensure success. Many a merchant loses one 
fortune to build up another and a larger one. Many an 
inventor fails in his first efforts, and is at last rewarded 
with triumph. Some of the most popular novelists 
wrote very poor stuff in the beginning. They were 
learning their trade, and could not be expected to turn 
out first-class work until their apprenticeship was over. 
One great secret of success is not to be discouraged, but 
always be ready to try again. 



Pure benevolence is a flower of beauty rare, of fra- 
grance sweet. It seldom blooms on earth, whose climate 
is too cold. In heaven k its native soil, it grows lux- 
uriantly. 



SCRAP BOOK.. 235 

WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE AT FULL MOON- 
TIME, MIDNIGHT. 
Not a cloud in the sky, not a voice on the breeze ; 
Not a wave on the far-spreading breast of the seas ; 
Each edge of the moon, like the sun in his might, 
Is bound with a belt of the fullest orbed light. 
While the vessels that sit on the face of the deep, 
Seem fixed to the waters in motionless sleep. 
'Tis the full harvest-moon, what a heavenly night ! 
All nature reposes in silvery light. 

Though the world were my own with its valleys and hills, 

And I ruled into silence its myriads of rills, 

What more could I feel of sweet solitude here — 

What more of enjoyment, though lord of a sphere? 

While man is asleep, and the pure azure skies 

Have opened their million of diamond-like eyes, 

And yon bright little star that the moon claims her own, 

Is abroad with its mistress, as star never shone ! 

All is love, all is beauty, all hush'd into rest — 

O God ! that man's heart should be ever oppressed — 

Hark ! a voice by the shore and a splash on the sea, 

'Tis some fleeting bark that now skims o'er the sea, 

The music keeps time with the beings that row, 

And the song, like a spirit, comes mellow and low ; 

'Tis enough ! I'll to bed and reflect on the scene, 

And my heart shall improve from a sight so serene. 



236 jane rowlky's 

FAULT FINDING. 

There is a disposition in some to view unfavorably 
everything that falls under their notice. They seek to 
gain confidence by always differing from others in judg- 
ment, and to depreciate what they allow to be worthy in 
itself by hinting at some mistake or imperfection in the 
performance. You are too lofty or too low in your man- 
ners ; you are frugal, or too profuse in your expendi- 
ture ; you are too taciturn, or too free in your speceh ; 
and so of the rest. Now, guard against this tendency. 
Nothing will conduce more to your uncomfortableness 
than living in the neighborhood of ill nature, and being 
familiar with discontent. The disposition grows with 
indulgence, and is low and base in itself; and if any 
should be ready to pride themsvlves on skill and facility 
in this science, let them remember that the acquisition is 
cheap and easy, a child can deface and destroy. Dull- 
ness and stupidity, which seldom lack inclination or 
means, can cavil and find fault, and everything can 
furnish ignorance, prejudice and envy with a handle of 
reproach. 

Love one human being purely and well, and you will 
love all. The heart in this heaven is like the wandering 
sun. It sees nothing from the dew-drop to the ocean, 
but a mirror which it warms and fills. 



SCRAP BOOK. 237 

SYMPATHY. 

From a richly stored green house, despised and neglected, 
Sad, injured, and broken, a lily was thrown ; 

Once loved by its owner, now coldly rejected ; 
Once tended with care, now abandoned in scorn. 

From the cold, piercing wind, from the tempest un- 
shielded, 

The sorrowing plant soon had withered and died. 
When this heart full of sympathy, tenderly yielded 

The kindly affection its owner denied. 

Though the hand that should foster had injured the 
blossom, 

And left the lone plant to a merciless doom, 
Yet the dew-drop of pity, infused on its bosom, 

Revived it again to a flourishing bloom. 

And now o'er the land that with tenderness cherished, 
The plant that had suffered so cruel a part, 

The buds gaily opened, that well-nigh had perished, 
Dropped the nectar of gratitude warm from the heart. 

Ah ! so with myself, when once, sad, broken-hearted, 
The laboring sigh all my sorrow betrayed ; 

Such the sweet consolation by friendship imparted, 
To heal the deep wound that misfortune had made. 



238 jane rowley's 

And such be forever the loved recollection, 
Of balm kindly poured in this bosom of woe ; 

And such be the tribute of grateful affection 

While life's purple stream in my bosom shall flow. 



THE STAR OF MY HOME. 

I remember the days when my spirit would turn, 

From the fairest of scenes, and the sweetest of song, 
When the hearth of the stranger seemed coldly to burn, 

And the moments of pleasure for me were too long ; 
For one name and one form shone in glory and light, 

And lured back from all that might tempt me to roam. 
The festal was joyous, but was not so bright 

As the smile of my mother, the Star of my Home ! 

I remember the days when the tear fill'd my eye, 

And the heaving sigh wildly disturb'd my young 
breast ; 

But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, 
And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to rest. 

The sharpest of pain and the saddest of woes, 

The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come : — 

Yet each wound had its balm, while my soul could re- 
pose 

On the breast of my mother, the Star of my Home ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 239 

But now let me roam the wide world as I will, 

There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ! 
I can rest amid strangers and laugh with the gay — 

Content with the pathway where'er it may be ; 
Let sorrow or pain fling their gloomiest cloud, 

There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save ; 
For the rays thet e're led me are quenched by the shroud, 

And the Star of my Home has gone down in the grave. 

Eliza Cook. 



QUARRELS. 



One of the most easy, the most common, most perfectly 
foolish things in the world, is to quarrel — no matter with 
whom — man, woman or child ; or on what pretences, 
provocations, on occasion whatsoever. There is no 
kind of necessity in it, and no species or degree of benefit 
to be gained by it, and yet, strange as the fact may be, 
theologians, politicians, lawyers, doctors, and princes 
quarrel ; nations, tribes, corporations, men, women, chil- 
dren, dogs, and cats, quarrel about all manner of things, 
and on all manner of occasions. If there is anything in 
the world will make a man feel bad, except pinching 
his finger in the crack of the door, it is unquestionably a 
quarrel. Xo man ever fails to think less of himself after, 
than he did before one ; it degrades him in his own eyes, 
and in the eves of others, and, what is worse, blunts his 



24° JANE ROWLEYS 

sensibility to disgrace on the one hand, and increases the 
power of passionate irritability on the other. The 
truth is, the more quietly and peaceably we get on, the 
better for ourselves, the better for our neighbors. In 
nine cases out often, the wisest course is, if a man cheats 
you, quit dealing with him ; if he is abusive, quit his 
company ; if he slanders you, take care to live so that 
nobody will believe him. No matter who he is, or how 
he misuses you, the wisest way is to let him alone ; for 
there is nothing better than this cool, calm, quiet way ot 
dealing with the wrongs we meet with. 



SAINT PATRICK. 
Be Eire blessed at evening hours, 
When sunset gilds her smiling bowers, 
When whirlwinds howl ! my blessing be, 
My generous Eirin, still on thee ; 
With thee be every blessing given 
From skies benign by favoring heaven ; 
Be blessings on thy battle blades, 
And blessings on thy bashful maids ; 
Blest be the fisher tribes that roam 
Thy darkening surge and whitening foam ; 
Oh ! blessed be thy stormy night, 
And blessed, too, thy morning bright ; 
And blessed be thy waving corn, 
And every babe in Eirin born ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 241 

IN A RAILWAY CAR. 

A crowd of men in a railway car 

Sat talking of many a thing ; 
Of the price of goods, and the chance of war, 

The weather and tardy spring. 
The}- stopped at a roadside very soon, 

For a maiden, young and fair, 
With a face as fresh as a rose in June, 

And a wealth of bright brown hair. 

Just for a moment all were still, 

Then a youth said, with a jeer, 
" She'd join our set if she had her will, 

Did you see her glance up here ? 
I'll just step forward and speak to her, 

And humor her little plan ;" 
And he smiled the weak and silly smile 

Of a vain and thoughtless man. 

" Sit still !" said one in a corner chair ; 

" If you have a sister, sir, 
Respect the sisters of other men, 

Though but for the sake of her. 
How would you feel if she stood there, 

And I, with a scornful jeer, 
Should ask — forgetting my own bold stare — 

' Did you see her glance up here ?' " 



342 JANE ROWLEYS 

" That's so !" said another, angrily ; 

"And it might have been my Grace, 
For she visits right often a family 

That lives pretty nigh this place. 
And the man that spoke of my daughter so 

Couldn't ride in a car with me ; 
And so, young sir, you had better go 

Where fathers are scarcer ! See ?" 

" 'Tis always my plan," said a gray-haired man* 

" To do as a good man should ; 
Think evety woman, both old and young, 

And pretty and plain, are good ; 
For I have a mother and sister at home, 

I have a daughter and wife, 
And I'm bound to say that every day, 

They're the comfort and joy of life . 

"And plenty of men have wives like mine, 

And daughters as fair and sweet, 
And gray-haired mothers, as good and true, 

And sisters as kind and neat ; 
And I say that he who will fling a sneer 

Or a doubt at a girl — why, then, 
He's neither worthy of woman's love, 

Nor worthy to sit with men." 



SCRAP BOOK. 24/ 

So the 3'outh went out with a very red face ; 
And nobody missed him a moment's space ; 
And perhaps he has learnt, if ever he can, 
That to sneer at a woman is shame to a man. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

Along the streets one day with that swift tread 
He walked a living king — then, " He is dead," 
The whisper flew from lip to lip, while still 
Sounding within our ears the echoing thrill 
Of his magician's voice, we seemed to hear, 
In notes of melody ring near and clear. 

So near, so clear, men cried, " It cannot be ! 

It was but yesterday he spoke to me ; 

But yesterday we saw him move along, 

His head above the crowd, swift-paced and strong ; 

But yesterday his plan and purpose sped, 

It cannot be to-day that he is dead." 

A moment thus, half-dazed, men met and spoke, 

When first the sudden news upon them broke : 

A moment more, with sad acceptance turned 

To face the bitter truth that they had spurned. 

Friends said through tears, " How empty seems the 

town," 
And warring critics laid their weapons down. 



244 JANE ROWLEYS 

He had his faults, they said, but they were faults 
Of head and not of heart — his sharp assaults 
Flung seeming heedless from his quivering bow, 
And heedless striking either friend or foe, 
Were launched with eyes that saw not foe or friend, 
But only shining far, some goal or end, 

That compassed once, should bring God's saving grace 
To purge and purify the human race. 
The measure that he meted out he took, 
And blow for blow received without a look, 
Without a sign of conscious hurt or hate, 
To stir the tranquil calmness of his state. 

Born on the heights and in the purple bred, 
He chose to walk the lowly ways instead, 
That he might lift the wretched and defend 
The rights of those who languished for a friend. 
So many years he spent in listening 
To these sad cries of wrong and suffering. 

It was not strange, perhaps, he thought the right 
Could never live upon the easeful height, 
Nor strange indeed that slow suspicion grew 
Against the class whose tyrannies he knew. 
But bitter and unsparing as his speech, 
He meant alone the evil deed to reach. 



SCRAP BOOK. 245 

No hate of persons winged his fiery shaft. 

He had no hatred but for cruel craft, 

And selfish measurements, where human Might 

Bore down upon the immemorial Right. 

Ee'n while he dealt his bitterest blows at power, 

No bitterness that high heart could devour. 

How at the last this great heart conquered all, 
We know who watched above his sacred pall — 
One day a living king he faced a crowd 
Of critic foes ; over the dead king bowed 
A throng of friends who yesterday were those 
Who thought themselves, and whom the world thought, 
foes. 

Nora Perry. 



GLADSTONE. 



Near that dim threshold where death lurks in wait 
To clutch the crown of seasons long delayed, 
By weakling's base desertion undismayed 

He stands, majestic, by the load of state 

Unbowed, undaunted, equal still to Fate. 

Not rank, nor wealth, nor prejudice arrayed, 
Nor hate, nor hope, may make his soul afraid, 

Whose fruit of aim is certain, ripe though late. 

When the brave falter and the strong grow cold, 



246 jane Rowley's 

With hand unshaken by all-palsying age 
He writes the word of Justice on the page, 
Where wrong for generations hath been scrolled. 
Oh ! nation-shaking tongue, oh ! voice of gold, 
And heart that years nor seasons may make old ! 

Land of pure women and hei'oic men, 

Whose sons through age-long darkness bravely grope 
To pluck the flower of long too hopeless hope ; 
Dwellers in lonely huts by bog and fen, 
Still fierce to drive the robbers from their den, 
Still aiming straight at your immortal scope, 
With old and newer foes still stanch to cope — 
When dawns now near your day of triumph, then 
When hymns are chanted and when thanks are said 
To all who loved you in the darker days — 
When the full glory of a people's praise 
To light through lingering and tempest led, 
Shines like the front of heaven among the dead. 
Wreathe then the immortal wreath for that white head. 



The two most precious things on this side the grave 
are our reputation and our life. But it is to be lamented 
that the most contemptible whisper may deprive us of the 
one, and the weakest weapon, of the other. A wise 
man, therefore, will be more anxious to deserve a fair 
name than to possess it, and this will teach him so to 
live as not to be afraid to die. 



SCRAP BOOK. 247 

MUSIC AND SONG. 

We've relics, curious and rare, 

Brought home from famous nooks, 

And music sweet, and pictures fair, 
And heaps of fine old books. 

The power of music over mankind can hardly be es- 
timated, and there are very few people in the world who 
are not infinenced by it. Among all nations, and in 
every clime, its power is acknowledged, and all, from 
the monarch on his throne, to the poorest peasant in his 
realm, pay allegiance to it. 

From the earliest times we read of its power, and who, 
in moments of discouragement and sadness, or, perhaps, 
when the spirit has been stirred by passion deep and 
strong, has not felt the sweet, quieting effect of music, 
and understood why it was that Saul, the ancient King 
of Israel, sought for the fair shepherd boy to charm 
away the evil spirit with his harp. 

Thousands of weary slaves have beguiled their toil bv 
singing their wild, strange melodies, and legions of tired 
soldiers have marched steadily forward, mile after mile, 
almost unconscious of fatigue, as they kept time to the 
inspiring music of their regimental bands. 

We all know the power of eloquence, but the power of a 
beautiful voice in song is even greater, touching the inner 
recesses of our hearts, and awakening the deepest emotions 



248 jane rowley's 

of our souls. It is related that once upon a tinie, a noted 
singer was passing through the market-place of the city 
of Lyons, when a woman and child asked alms of him. 
Pausing to assist her, he discovered that he had no 
money with him ; but, wishing to help her, taking off 
his hat, he sang his best, hastily giving the money 
collected to the beggar. 

" The singer pleased, passed on, and softly thought, 
Men will not know by whom this deed was wrought ; 
But when, at night, he came upon the stage, 
Cheer after cheer went up from that wide throng, 
And flowers rained on him. Naught could assauge 
The tumult of the welcome, save the song 
That for the beggar he had sung that day, 
While standing in the city's busy way. 



Oh, conscience ! conscience ! man's most faithful friend ! 
Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend ; 
But if he will thy friendly checks forego, 
Thou art, oh, woe for me ! his deadliest foe. 

Crabbe. 



To thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

Shakespeare. 



SCRAP BOOK. 240 

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 

(Among the poetic legacies that will " never grow old, 
nor change, nor pass away," is the noble dirge of Shirley 
in his " Contention of Ajax and Ulysses." Doubtless it 
was by the fall, if not by the death, of Charles I., that the 
mind of the royalist poet was solemnized to the creation 
of the imperishable stanzas. Oliver Cromwell is said, 
on the recital of them, to have been seized with great 
terror and agitation of mind.) 

The glories of our mortal state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be even made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late, 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 



250 JANE ROWLEYS 

The garlands wither on your brow, 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon death's purple altar now. 

See where the victor-victim bleeds ; 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb. 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 



'Tis an excellent world that we live in — 

To lend, to spend, or to give in ; 

But to borrow or beg, or get a man's own, 

'Tis just the worst world that ever was known ! 



CHILDREN. 



The smallest are nearest to God, as the smallest 
planets are nearest the sun. Were I only for a time 
almighty and powerful, I would create a little world 
especially for myself, and suspend it under the mildest 
sun — a world where I would have nothing but lovely 
little children, and these little things I would never 
suffer to grow up, but only to play eternally. If a 
seraph were worthy of heaven, or his golden pinions 
drooped, I Would send him to dwell for a while in my 
happy infant world. And no angel, so long as he saw 
their innocence, could lose his own. 

Jean Paul. 



SCRAP BOOK. 25I 

BIRTH, PARENTAGE, AND EDUCATION OF 
A BOOK. 

The following eighteen occupations are engaged in 
the production of a single book : The author, the rag-mer- 
chant, the paper-maker, the stationer, the quill-dresser, 
the ink-maker, the type-founder, the press-maker, the 
roller-maker, the chase-maker, the pressman, the com- 
positor, the reader, the folder, the gatherer, the stitcher, 
the twine-merchant, the thread-merchant. 



FROM THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

"At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with high arch the glittering hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus with delight we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; 
Thus from afar, each dim discover'd scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been ; 
And every form that fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there." 



252 JANE ROWLEYS 

THE SPIRIT GUIDE. 

BY AUGUSTUS LARNED. 

Far in the realms of Arctic night, 
Where flames the weird auroral light, 
And icebergs loom on every hand, 
Enchantress of that lonely land, 
The patient dark-skinned Esquimaux, 
A little grave shapes in the snow. 
And o'er the ice-plain, bleak and wild, 
The murmuring mother bears her child, 
In furry garment, softly rolled, 
Who ne'er again shall feel the cold, 
And lays him on the icy breast 
To take his last and final rest. 
And there beside the little mound 
The father slays his fleetest hound, 
A creature of unerring skill, 
Of keenest scent, of docile will, 
To trace for haunts of seal and bear, 
That stock the little ice-hut there. 
He lays the faithful beast and brave, 
Low down beside his baby's grave, 
And says : " The little one will stray, 
Through night and darkness far away, 
His tender feet have never trod, 
And cannot find the path of God. 



SCRAP BOOK. 253 

" Now guide him safe from night and cold, 
Far out to realms of purest gold, 
Where flowery meads and crystal streams 
Are smiling to the sun's glad beams, 
Where rise abodes of joy and mirth, 
And feasting fills the happy earth." 

Consoled the parents homeward wend, 
And leave the baby to the friend, 
Who for protection and defence, 
Has proved a gentle providence, 
Sure that the dog, so true and wise, 
Will find the grates of Paradise. 



The way to be happy is to take the days of happiness 
as God gives them to us every day of our lives. 

The boy must learn to be happy while learning his 
trade ; the merchant while he is making his fortune. If 
he fails to learn this art he will be sure to miss his en- 
joyment when he gains what he has sighed for. 



Ingratitude closes the door to Heaven's gifts, acknowl- 
edgment of them keeps it open. If vou desire the 
treasures of Paradise to be opened to vou, be always 
grateful to your sovereign benefactor. 

S. Leonard, of Port Maurice. 



254 jane rowley's 

HOME, SWEET HOME. 

BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here, 
Which, seek through the world is ne'er met with else- 
where. 

Home ! home, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! - 
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
The birds singing gaily that come to my call ; 
O, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all ! 

Home ! home, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 



Let us try to be happy ! some shades of regret 
Are sure to hang rouud, which we cannot forget ; 
There are times when the lightest ot spirits must bow, 
And sunniest face wear a cloud on its brow. 
We must never bid feelings the purest and blest 
Lie blunted and cold in our bosom at rest ; 
But the deeper our own griefs the greater the need 
To try to be happy, lest other hearts bleed. 



Oh, what a tangled web we weave 

When first we practice to deceive. — Scott. 



SCRAP BOOK. 255 

A RECEIPT FOR COOKING HUSBANDS. 

A Baltimore lady has written a receipt for " cooking 
husbands, so as to make them good and tender." It is as 
follows : — A good many husbands are utterly spoiled by 
management. Some women go about it as if their hus- 
bands were bladders, and blow them up ; others keep 
them constantly in hot water ; others let them freeze by 
their carelessness and indifference. Some keep them in 
a stew by irritating wayward words, others roast them. 
Some keep them in pickle all their lives. It cannot be 
supposed that any husband will be tender and good 
managed in this way, but they are really delicious when 
properly treated. 

In selecting your husband you should not be guided 
by their silvery appearance, as in buying mackerel, nor 
by the golden tints, as if you wanted salmon. Be sure 
to select him yourself, as tastes differ. Do not go to 
market for him, as the best are always brought to your 
door. It is far better to have none unless you will 
patiently learn how to cook him. A preserving kettle 
of finest porcelain is best, if you have nothing but an 
earthenware pipkin, it will do with care. See that the 
linen in which you wrap him is nicely washed and 
mended, with the required number of buttons and strings 
sewed on. Tie him in the kettle by a strong silk cord 
called comfort, as the one called duty is apt to be weak. 



256 jane rowley's 

They are apt to fly out of the kettle and be crusty and 
burned on the edges, since like crabs and lobsters you 
have to cook them while alive. Make a clear steady fire 
out of love, cheerfulness and neatness. Set him as near 
this as it seems to agree with him. If he sputters and 
frizzes, do not be anxious ; some husbands do this till they 
are quite done. Add a little sugar in the form of what 
confectioners call kisses, but no vinegar or pepper on any 
account. A little spice improves them, but must be used 
with judgment. Do not stick sharp instruments into him 
to see if he is becoming tender. Stir him gently, watch 
the while, lest he be too fiat and close to the kettle and 
so become useless. You cannot fail to know when he is 
done. If thus treated you will find him very digestible, 
agreeing nicely with you and the children. And he will 
keep as long as you want unless you become careless and 
set him in too cold a place. — Tit Bits. 



Man that man would be 
Must rule the Empire of himself, in it 
Must be supreme, establish his throne on 
Vanquished will, quelling the anarchy 
Of hopes and fears. — Shelly. 



You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, 
But the scent of the rose will hang round it still. — Moore. 



SCRAT BOOK. 257 

OH! THE SHAMROCK. 

THOMAS MOORE. 

Through Erin's Isle, 

To sport awhile, 
As Love and Valor wandered, 

With Wit the sprite, 

Whose quiver bright 
A thousand arrows squandered ; 

Where'er they pass, 

A tripple grass 
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 

As softly green 

As Emerald, seen 
Through purest crystal gleaming ! 
Oh ! the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock, 

Chosen leaf 

Of Bard and Chief 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

Says Valor, "See 

The sprig for me," 
"Those leafy gems of morning ;" 

vSays Love, "No, no, 

For me they grow, 

For me they grow, 
My fragrant path adorning !" 



258 jane rowley's 

But Wit perceives, 

The triple leaves, 
And cries, "Oh ! do not sever" 
And cries, "Oh ! do not sever" 

A type that blends 

Three god-like friends, 
"Love, Valor, Wit, forever!" 
Oh ! the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock, 

Chosen leaf 

Of Bard and Chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock. 

So firmly fond 

May last the bond 
They wove that morn together, 

And ne'er may fall 

One drop of gall 
On Wit's celestial feather ! 

May Love as shoot 

His flower and fruit, 
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ! 

May Valor ne'er 

His standard rear 
Against the cause of Freedom ! 
Oh ! the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock, 

Chosen leaf, 

Of Bard and Chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 259 

THE IRISHMAN. 

BY J. GRAHAM. 

The savage loves his native shore, 

Though rude the soil and chill the air, 
Then why shouldn't Erin's sons adore 

An Isle which nature formed so fair? 
What flood reflects a shore so sweet 

As Shannon great or pastoral Ban : 
Or who a friend or foe can meet 

So generous as an Irishman ? 
His hand is rash, his heart is warm, 

But principle is still his guide, 
None more regrets a deed of harm, 

And none forgives with nobler pride ; 
He may be duped, but won't be dared ; 

More fit to practice than to plan ; 
He dearly earns his poor reward, 

And spends it like an Irishman. 
If poor and strange, he'll for you pay, 

Or guide to where you safe may be ; 
If you're his comrade, while you stay, 

His cottage holds a jubilee. 
His very soul he will unlock, 

And if he may your merits scan, 
Your confidence he scorns to mock, 

For faithful is an Irishman. 



360 jane rowley's 

By honor bound in weal or woe, 

Whate'er she bids he dares to do, 
Try him with bribe, it won't prevail ; 

Put him in fire, you'll find him true. 
He seeks not safety, be his post 

Whate'er it may in danger's van ; 
And if the field of fame be lost, 

It won't be by an Irishman. 

Erin's loved land, from age to age, 

Be thou more great, more famed, and free ; 
May peace be yours, or should you wage 

Defensive war — reap victory. 
May plenty flow in every field, 

Which gentle breezes sweetly fan, 
And cheerful smiles serenely gild 

The breast of every Irishman. 



BYRON. 



'Tis sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark, 

Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; 
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 

Our coming, and look brighter when we come : 
'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, 

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 



SCRAP BOOK. 26l 

THE GRAVE OF LINCOLN. 

BY EBEN E. REXFORD. 

A solemn hush is in the air ; 

Awe lays her finger on my lip, 
And nature seems to bend in prayer 

Claiming with me companionship 
In love and reverence, to-day, 

For the great man whose grave is here, 
The martyr o'er whose dust I lay 

The silent tribute of a tear. 
What deep emotions fill the soul 

Beside this grave, as we look back 
And see again the war-cloud roll 

Across the horizon, grim and black. 
For one to lead them came the cry — 

It echoes on our ears to-day ; 
The heart of Lincoln makes reply, 

His words the mustering millions sway. 
I see the grave and earnest man, 

With steadfast purpose in his eyes, 
Stand facing dangerous times to scan 

With anxious look the threatening skies. 
I hear him speak, his words are brave, 

With faith that God would show the way. 
He did, and left to us this grave, 

From which he spoke to us to-day. 



262 jane Rowley's 

I live again those April days, 

When people cried, "Our chief is dead !" 
And questioned, in their griefs amaze, 

Of who should lead as he had led. 
I hear the nation's bitter cry 

Of sorrow for the man who fell, 
As peace across the stormy sky 

Flashed out its rainbow miracle. 

Thy loss was not our loss alone, 

O martyr'd chieftain true and tried ; 
The great world claimed thee as her own, 

With all a mother's loving pride. 
And many a heart beyond the sea, 

Who breathed with thee in freedom's air, 
Cried out in tribute unto thee, 

"We lost our noblest brother there !" 

Rest, Lincoln, with thy work well done, 

No more the land is filled with strife ; 
The soldier father tells his son, 

In peace, the lesson of thy life ; 
From North and South, men meet to-day, 

As brothers, by thy place of rest, 
The spot is holy ground, we say, 

The sacred Mecca of the West. 
Springfield, III., June, iS8tj. 



SCRAP BOOK. 263 



THE DAY LILY. 

BY NOAH PERRY. 

Just for a day, for a day, 

I breathe into bloom ; 
Just for a day, for a day, 

I shed my perfume. 

Just for a day, for a day, 

"Alack and Alas, 
How fleeting and brief thy stay," 

They cry, as I pass. 

But fleeting and brief, I give 

The wealth of my soul 
Just for the day I live, 

Without stint or control. 

What more can a life bestow 

Ere it passes away, 
Than its all, though its warmth and glow 

Be but for a day. 



Oh ! Love, how are thy precious, sweetest minutes, 
Thus ever crossed, thus vexed by disappointment, 
Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels, 
And sullen coldness give us pain by turn. — Row. 



264 jane Rowley's 

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 

The language of flowers was doubtless known to the 
ancients, and it would appear that the Greeks under- 
stood the art of communicating a secret message through 
the medium of a bouquet ; at all events, garlands were 
conspicuous among the emblematic devices of antiquity. 

Flowers, the emblems and the favorites of the fair, are 
not everywhere prized merely for their beauty and their 
fragrance ; invention has created from them symbolic 
phrases for expressing the sweet sentiments of the heart. 
This language is most generally used by the Turkish and 
Greek women of the Levant, and by the African females 
on the coast of Barbary. A nosegay, or garland of 
flowers, ingeniously selected and put together for the 
purpose of communicating in secret an expressive lan- 
guage, the sentiments of the heart, is in the Greek called 
a salaam (salutation) . It often happens that a female 
slave corresponds with her lover merely by the arrange- 
ment of flower-pots in a garden. Written love letters 
would often be inadequate to convey an idea of the feel- 
ings which are thus expressed through the medium of 
flowers. Thus, orange flowers signify hope ; marigold, 
despair ; sunflowers, constancy ; roses, beauty, and tu- 
lips represent the complaints of infidelity. 

This hieroglyphic is known only to the lover and his 
mistress, in order to envelop it the more completely in 



SCRAP BOOK. 26s, 

the veil of secrecy ; the significance of the different flow- 
ers are changed in conformity with a pre-concerted plan. 
For example — the rose is employed to express the idea 
which would be attached to the amaranth, the gillyflower 
is substituted for the pomegranite blossom. 

The language of flowers is much employed in the 
Turkish harem, where the women practice it for the 
sake of mere diversion in their solitude, or for the pur- 
pose of secret communication. 

The following are some of the emblematic significa- 
tions which have been attributed to different flowers, 
shrubs and trees. 

The Almond Tree signifies indiscretion. It is the 
first of the trees to obey the call of early spring. Noth- 
ing can be more graceful than this beautiful tree when it 
appears covered with blossoms when the surrounding 
trees are naked. It has been made the emblem of indis- 
cretion from flowering so early that frost too often de- 
stroys the precious germs of its fruit, though, instead of 
injuring its flowers, they seem to confer on the latter 
additional beauty. 

Passion Flower. In the passion flower there is a 
representation of the crown of thorns, the scourge, 
the cross, the sponge, the nails, and five wounds of 
Christ, whence its name. 

Sage, esteem. The common garden sage has ever 
been held in great esteem by all domestic practitioners 



266 jane rowley's 

for its medicinal virtues. By the ancients it was sup- 
posed to prolong life ; hence a line by one of their poets 
which signifies — " How can a man die in whose garden 
there grows sage ?" 

Mignonette. Your qualities surpass your charms. 

Lily of the Valley. Return of happiness ; also, 
humility. 

Peppermint. Warmth of feeling. Minthe was sur- 
prised by Proserpine in the company of her gloomy 
spouse. The enraged goddess changed her rival into a 
plant, which seems to comprehend in its double flower 
the coldness of fear and the warmth of love. This plant 
we cultivate by the name of peppermint. 

Helenium. Tears. The flowers of the helenium re- 
semble small suns of a beautiful yellow. They blow in 
autumn with the asters. They are said to have been 
produced by the tears of Helena. 

Pine Apple. You are perfect. 

Romculus. You are radiant with charms. 

Wormwood. Absence. Absence, according to La 
Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Wormwood is the bit- 
terest of plants. Its name, derived from the Greek, 
signifies without sweetness. 

Heart's-ease. Think of me. 

Marigold and Cypress. Despair. Cypress is the 
emblem of death ; the marigold of sorrow. The combit 



SCRAP BOOK. 267 

nation of the two expresses despair. 

White Violet. Candor. Candor precedes mod- 
esty. It is a violet still clothed in the color of inno- 
cence. 

Violet. Modesty. Ion, the Greek name of this 
flower, is traced by some etymologist to Io, the daughter 
of Midas, who was betrothed to Ate, and changed by 
Diana into a violet, to hide her from Apollo. The 
beautiful and modest flower still retains the bashful 
timidity of the nymph, partially concealing itself amidst 
foliage from the garish gaze of the sun. Hence it has 
been ingeniusly given as a device to an amiable and witty 
lady, of a timid and reserved disposition, surrounded by 
the motto. 

1lfaut-ma-chercher. I must be sought after. 

Daisy. Innocence. Fabulous history informs us that 
the daisy owes its origin to Belides, one of the nymphs 
called Dryads, who were supposed to preside over 
meadows and pastures. While dancing with Ephignes, 
whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration of 
Vertumnus, the deity who presides over orchards, and, to 
escape from him, she was transformed into the humble 
flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. 

Narcissus and Daffodil. Self-love. The ancients at- 
tribute the origin of this flower to the metamorphosis of a 
beautiful youth, named Narcissus, who, having slighted 
the love of the nymph, Echo, became enamored of 



268 



JANE ROWLEYS 



his own image, which he beheld in a fountain, and pined 
to death in consequence. The Narcissus also is said to 
signify unrequited love. 

Hawthorn, or White Thorn. Hope. Among the 
Turks a branch of the hawthorn expresses the wish of 
the lover to receive a kiss from the object of his affec- 
tions. 

Tulip. Declaration of love. 
White Rose Bud. Too young to love. 
Periwinkle. Tender recollections. 
Pink. True love. Yellow pink, disdain. 
Rose. Love. 

Hundred Leaved. Grace. 

Monthly. Beauty ever new. 

Musk. Capricious beauty. 

Single. Simplicity. 

White. Silence. 

Withered. Fleeting beauty. 

Yellow. Infidelity. 

According to the ancient fable, the red color of the 
rose may be traced to Venus, whose delicate foot, when 
she was hastening to the relief of her beloved Adonis, 
was pierced by a thorn that drew blood. 

" Which, on the white rose being shed, 
Made it for ever after red." 



SCRAP BOOK. 269 

The origin of that exquisitely beautiful variety, the 
moss rose, is thus fancifully accounted for : 

" The angels of the flowers one day, 

Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay. 

The spirit to whose charge is given 

To bathe young buds with dew from heaven. 

Awaking from his light repose, 

The angel whispered to the rose, 

' O, fondest object of my care, 

Still fairest found where all is fair, 

For the sweet shade thou'st given to me, 

Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee.' 

" Then said the rose, with deepening glow, 
' On me another grace bestow.' 
The spirit paused in silent thought. 
What grace is there this flower has not? 
'Twas but a moment — o'er the rose 
A veil of moss the angel throws. 
And, robed in Nature's simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that rose exceed?" 

Lily — Majesty. According to the heathen mythology 
there was originally only one species of Lily, namely, the 
orange-colored ; and the white was produced by the fol- 
lowing circumstances : — Jupiter being desirous to render 
Hercules immortal, prevailed on Juno to take a deep 



270 jane rowley's 

draught of nectar, which having been prepared by Som- 
nus, threw the queen oi the gods into a profound slum- 
ber. Jupiter took advantage of this to place the infant 
Hercules to her breast, that the divine milk might en- 
sure his immortality. The infant, in his eagerness, drew 
the milk faster than he could swallow it, and some drops 
fell to the earth, from which immediately sprang the 
White Lily. 

Carolina Jasmine. Separation. 

Thorn Apple — Deceitful charms. The flower of 
the Thorn Apple, like the charms of nocturnal beauties, 
droop while the sun shines beneath their dull-looking 
foliage ; but, on the approach of night, they revive, dis- 
play their charms and unfold their prodigious bells, which 
nature has covered with purple, and lined with ivory ; 
and to which she has given an odor that attracts and in- 
toxicates, but is so dangerous as to stupify those who in- 
hale it even in the open air. The fruit is equally 
poisonous. 

Myrtle. Love. 

Honeysuckle. Generous and devoted affection. 

Broom — Humility. In the years 1, 2, 3, 4, St. Louis, 
of France, after the coronation of his queen, chose the 
flower of this plant as the insignia or a new order of 
knighthood. The members of this order were a chain 
composed of flowers of the Broom, entwined with white 
enamelled lilies from which was suspended a gold cross. 



SCRAP BOOK. 271 

with the inscription, " Exahalla humules, He ex- 
alteth the humble." 

This plant called in Latin, Genista, and in French, 
Genet, gave the name of Plantagenet to the sovereigns of 
England for several centuries. Geoftrv, Count of An- 
jou, it is said, first acquired the name of Plantagenet 
from the incident of his wearing a sprig of Broom on his 
helmet on a day of battle. From this Geoffry and 
Matilda, or Maud, Empress of Germany and daughter of 
Henry First of England, descended all the Edwards and 
Henrys. 

Another tradition respecting this illustrious name is, 
that a prince of the house of Anjou having killed his 
brother to enjoy his principality, afterwards repented, 
and made a voyage to the Holy Land to expatiate his 
crime, scourged himself with a rod every night made 
from the plant Genet, Genista, Broom. Hence the name 
Plantagenet. 

Strawberry. Perfection. 

St. John's Wort. Superstition. 

Jasmine. Amiableness. 

Poppy. Consolation. 

Corn. Riches. 

Peruvian Heliotrope. Devote attachment. 

Holyhock. Ambition. 

Sunflower. False riches ; also constancy, from its 



272 jane rowley's 

habit of following the course of the sun, a notion adopted 

by the poets, and not without reason. 

" As the sunflower turns on his god, when he sets, 
The same look that he gave when he rose." 

Meadow Saffron — Best days are passed. This 
flower springs up and blooms amidst the damp grass of 
the meadows when the leaves are falling from the trees, 
and the aspect of nature betokens decay. 

Scarlet Geranium. Stupidity. 

Marvel of Peru. Timidity. 

Oak. Hospitality. 

Amaranth. Immortality. 

Dead Leaves. Sadness, Melancholy. 

Ivy. Friendship. 

Mistletoe. I surmont all difficulties. 

Moss. Maternal love. 

Lawnstinus. I die if neglected. 

Laurel. Glory. 

Parsley. Festivity. 

Star of Bethlehem. Divinity. 

Hop. Injustice. 

Snap Dragon. Presumption. 

Rose Scented Geranium. Preference. 

Walnut. Strategem. The city of Amiens was taken 

by the Spaniards, in 1500, by a singular stratagem. Some 

soldiers, disguised as countrymen, came up to the gates 

with a cartload of walnuts. Here they untied one of the 



SCRAP BOOK. 273 

sacks containing the nuts, the latter fell out as soon as 
the gate was opened, and the cart began to move. While 
the guards were busy picking them up a body of 
Spaniards, who were in ambush, fell upon them and 
made themselves masters of the city. 

Quince. Temptation. 

London Pride. Frivolity. 

White Lilac. Youth. 

Lilac. First emotions of love. 

Iris. Message. 

Pencilled Leaf Geranium. Ingenuity. 

Dock. Patience. 

Wild Daisy. I will think of it. 

China Aster. After-thought. 

Acacia. Friendship. 

Plum Tree. Keep your promise. 

Sweet William. Finesse. 

Larkspur. Lightness. 

Ice Plant. Your looks freeze me. 

Grass. Utility. 

Wild Geranium. Steadfast piety. 

Garden Daisy. I share your sentiments. 

Anemone. Forsaken. 

Snowdrop. Hope. 

Valerian. Accommodating disposition. The red 
Valerian grows naturally on the rocks of the Alps, and 
from the facility with which it propogates itself in the 



274 JANE ROWLEYS 

garden, or on old walls, it is made the emblem of an ac- 
commodating disposition. 

Thyme. — Activity. Activity is a warlike virtue, 
associated with true courage. It was on this account that 
ladies ot chivalrous times embroidered on the scarf which 
they presented to their knights, the figure of a bee hover- 
ing about a sprig of Thyme, in order to recommend 
the union of the amiable with the active. Where Thyme 
is growing there is always a scene of activity. Flies of 
all shapes, beetles of all hues, light butterflies, and vigi- 
lant bees forever surround its flowery tufts. 



PAUL JONES. 

It was a stately Southerner that carried the Stripes and 

Stars, 
The whistling wind from west sou'west blew through her 

pitch-pine spars ; 
With her starboard tacks on board, my boys, she hung 

upon the gale, 
On an autumn night, as she raised the light of the old 

Head of Kinsale. 

For nightly garb our frigate her three large topsails wore, 
The spanker and the standing jib, with courses main and 

fore ; 
The swelling seas beneath her bow in creamy foam she 

spread, 



SCRAP BOOK. 275 

And, sending below her bosom in snow, she buried her 
lee cat-head. 

No thought was there of shortening sail by him who trod 

the poop, 
Though by the weigh of her ponderous jib the boom bent 

like a hoop. 
The groaning chess-trees told the strain that carried the 

stout main tack, 
But he only laughed as he looked abaft at her bright and 

silvery track. 

Now what is that on our larboard bow, that hangs upon 
our lee ? 

It's time our good ship hauled her wind abreast of the 
Saltee, 

For by her ponderous spread of sail, and by her taut of 
spar, 

We knew that our morning visitor was an English man- 
of-war. 

Then up spoke our commander, not a frown was on his 
brow, 

" Quick ! lay aloft, my gallant lads, spare not your can- 
vas now ; 

We fly aloft the Stars and Stripes againt the Royal boast, 

Paul Jones, the terror of the seas, can whip them round 
their coast. 



276 jane rowley's 

" Loose all your canvas fore and aft, loose all and give 
her sheet ; 

The swiftest keel that cuts the deep in all the British fleet 

Comes thundering down upon us with the white foam at 
his bow, 

So lay aloft, my gallant lads, spare not the canvas now !" 

'Twas thus our gallant Captain spoke, and scarce a mo- 
ment passed, 

When royal and to'gallant yards were crossed upon each 
mast ; 

The British gave a rousing cheer from the deck of their 
covered ark, 

We answered them back with a scornful shout from the 
deck of our patriot bark. 

The fog hung heavy on the deep from Fethard to Cam- 
sore, 

The mist it had not cleared away, but still obscured the 
shore ; 

With light sails set and booms rigged out, and stun'sis 
hoisted away, 

Down the Irish Channel Paul Jones he bore before the 
break of day. 

A shoemaker once made shoes without leather, 
With the aid of the elements all together, 
Fire, water, earth and air, 
And each of his customers took two pair. 



SCRAP BOOK. 277 

A NATIONAL HYMN. 

When this fair land, by Heaven defended, 

Arose to champion human right, 
And, freedom's battle fought and ended, 

Saw Freedom's self enthroned in might, 
Around the world this song resounded, 
While from each heart the echo bounded, — 
Ever happy, ever free, 
Land of light and liberty. 

No herald for thy banner blended 

Symbol and shield and curious crest ; 
But Heaven herself thy birth attended, 
And bared for thee her azure breast. 
Her fairest hues thine advent greeted, 
And star by star the song repeated, — 
Ever happy, ever free, 
Land of light and liberty. 

Land of the mighty ! through the nations 

Thy fame shall live and travel on ; 
And all succeeding generations 

Shall bless the name of Washington. 
While year by year new triumphs bringing, 
The sons of Freedom shall be singing, — 

Ever happy, ever free, 

Land of light and liberty. 



278 jane Rowley's 

Columbus, on his dauntless mission, 

Beheld his lovely isle afar ; 
Did he not see, in distant vision, 

The rising of this Western star, — 
This queen who now, in state befitting, 
Between two ocean-floods is sitting ? — 
Ever happy, ever free, 
Land of light and liberty. 

As sunward still, with sovereign pinion, 

The eagle mounts against the gale, 
Against Oppression's proud dominion, 
The sword of Freedom shall prevail. 
The grandest theme on history's pages, 
A tower of strength amid the ages, — 
Ever happy, ever free, 
Land of light and liberty. 

Thus fixed on freedom's firm foundations, 

To God, thy fervent thanks upraise, 
Amid the world's loud gratulations, 

Be truth and justice still thy praise. 
Be this thy watchword, — Love and Duty. 
O land of glory ! land of beauty ! 
Ever happy, ever free, 
Land of light and liberty. 

Morrisville, Bucks County, Pa. 



H. B. 



SCRAP BOOK. 279 

LOVE AND CARE. 

Love sat in his bower one summer day, 

And Care, with his train, came to drive him away ; 

" I will not depart," said Love. 
And, seizing his lute, with silver words, 
He ran his bright fingers along the chords, 
And played so sweet, so entrancing an air, 
That a grim smile lit up the face of Care : 

"Away — away !" said Love. 

" Nay, nay, I have friends !" grim Care replied ; 
" Behold, here is one — and his name is Pride !" 

" I care not for Pride !" said Love. 
Then touching the strings of his light guitar, 
Pride soon forgot his lofty air, 
And seizing the hand of a rustic queen, 
Laugh'd, gambolled, and tripp'd it o'er the green. 

"Aha — aha!" said Love. 

"Away with your jeers !" cried Care ; " if you please ; 
Here's another — lank, haggard, and pale Disease !" 

" I care not for him !" said Love. 
Then touched a strain so plaintive and meek, 
That a flush pass'd over his pallid cheek ; 
And Disease leap'd up from his couch of pain, 
And smil'd, and re-echoed the healing strain. 

" Well done for Disease !" said Love. 



280 jane rowley's 

"Pshaw — pshaw !" cried Care ; " this squalid one see ! 
How likest thou the guant look of Poverty ?" 

" I care not for him !" said Love. 
Then struck such a sound from his viol's strings. 
That Poverty shouted aloud, " I am a king ! 
The jewelled wreaths round my temples shall twine — 
For the sparkling gems of Golgonda are mine !" 

"Aye, aye — very true!" said Love. 

"Nay, boast not," said Care ; " there is fretful old Age. 
Beware of his crutches, and tempt not his rage !" 

" I care not for Age !" said Love. 
Then swept the strings of his magic lyre, 
Till the glazed eye sparkled with youthful fire ; 
And Age dropped his crutches, and, light as a fay, 
Laugh'd, caper'd, and danced, like a child at play. 

" Bravo, Sir Eld !" said Love. 

"A truce !" cried wrinkled Care, " with thy glee ! 
Now, look on this last one — 'tis Jealousy !" 

"Ah me ! ah me ! said Love. 
Her green eye burns with a quenchless fire — 
" I die ! I die !" Then dropping his lyre, 
Love flew away from his cherished bower, 
And never returned from that fatal hour ! 

Alas, for the blighted Love ! 



SCRAP BOOK. 201 

KATHLEEN O'NIALL. 

It was the eve of holy Saint Bride, 

The abbey bells were ringing, 
And the meek-eyed nuns at eventide 

The vesper hymns were singing. 

Alone, by the well of good Saint Bride, 

A novice fair was kneeling : 
And there seem'd not o'er her soul to glide, 

One " stain of earthly feeling." 

For ne'er did that clear and sainted well, 

Reflect from its crystal water, 
A form more fair than the shadow that fell 

From O'Niall's lovely daughter. 

Her eye was bright as the blue concave, 

And beaming with devotion : 
Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave 

Of Erin's rolling ocean. 

Yet oh ! forgive her that starting tear ; 

From home and kindi'ed riven, 
Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, 

Must be the bride of heaven. 

Her beads were told and the moonbeams shone 

Sweetly on Callen water : 
When her path was crossed by a holy nun, 

Benedict fair daughter. 



282 jane rowley's 

Fair Kathleen started. Ah ! well did she know- — 

Oh ! what will not love discover ? 
The country's scourge, and her father's foe, 

'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 

" Raymond !" " Oh ! hush, my Kathleen, dear. 

My path is beset with danger, 
But cast not, love, those looks of fear 

Upon thy dark-haired stranger. 

" My red roan steed's in yon culdee grove ; 

My bark is out at sea, love ; 
My boat is moor'd in the ocean, love, 

Then haste away with me, love. 

" My father has sworn my hand shall be 

To Sidney's daughter given, 
And thine to-morrow will offer thee 

A sacrifice to heaven. 

" But away, my love, away with me, 

The breeze to the west is blowing ; 
And thither across the dark blue sea, 

Are England's bravest going, 

" To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers 

Comes o'er the exile's sorrow ; 
Like the light-winged dreams of his early hours 

Or his hope of a happier morrow. 



SCRAP BOOK. 283 

"And there in some valley's loneliness, 

By wood and mountain shaded, 
We'll live in the light of wedded bliss, 

Till the lamp of life be faded. 

" Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly, 

The storms of life we'll weather, 
Till in bliss beneath the western sky, 

We'll live, love, — die together." 

" Die, Saxon, now !" at that fiend-like yell, 

A hundred swords are gleaming ; 
Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well, 

His heart's best blood is streaming. 

In vain he doffed his hood so white, 

In vain his falchion flashing ; 
Five monkish brands through his corslet bright, 

Within his heart are clashing. 

His last groan echoing through the grove, 

His life blood on the waters, 
He dies — thy first, and thy only love, 

O'Niall's hapless daughter. 

Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow ; 

In vain that eye beseeched them ; 
Through his Kathleen's heart, the murderous blow 

Too deadly aimed had reached him. 



284 jane rowley's 

The spirit fled with the red, red blood 

Fast gushing from her bosom ; 
The blast of death has blighted the bud 

Of Erin's loveliest blossom. 

'Tis morn, in the deepest doubt and di'ead, 

The gloomy hours are rolling ; 
No sound save the requiem for the dead, 

Or knell from the death bell tolling. 

'Tis dead of night ; not a sound is heard, 
Save from the night wind sighing, 

Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird, 
To yon pale planet crying. 

Who names the name of his murdered child ? 

What spears to the moon are glancing? 
'Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas, wild, 

His Bounacht men advancing. 

Saw ye that smoke on the moonlight last, 

Fire from its darkness gleaming? 
Heard ye that cry in the moonlight blast, 

The voice of terror shrieking ? 

'Tis the fire from Ardsallach's * willow'd height, 

Tower and temple paling ; 
'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, 

From monks, for mercy calling. 
* The height of Willows. The ancient name of Armagh. 



SCRAP BOOK. 285 

On being playfully asked by two pretty girls which 
one he should prefer, if he were going to make a choice : 
" How happy could I be with either," was said, 

By Macheath, to his two wives in the play ; 
But were two such " charmers " as you in their stead, 

He could not wish either away. 
Oh, no ! until death with such angels he'd grapple — 

They both are so temptingly fair ; 
That as Adam lost heaven by eating an apple, 

I'd forfeit my chance for a pair. 



Beautiful Extract. — Helping a handsome young 
lady out of a mud puddle. 

•'I'm a tickler friend to you," as the snuff said to the 
nose. " I shall be glad to hear from you at any time," 
as the deaf man said to the trumpet. " Let me collect 
myself," as the man said when he was blown up by the 
powder mill " Loaded with slugs," as the gardener 
said to the cauliflower. 



A country gentleman's answer to a lady who sent her compliments on 
the ten of hearts : 

Your compliments, dear lady, pray forbear, 

Old English services are more sincere ; 

You sent ten hearts, thy tithe is only one, 

Give me but one, and burn the other nine. 



286 jane rowley's 

THE ROSE. 

A rose dropped from her bosom, 

And he caught it as it fell ; 
Was there no tale that to his heart, 

That drooping rose could tell ? 
Did he not look upon her cheek, 

And see one fading there, 
That once had worn as deep a blush, 

And looked as young and fair ? 

And when her small and trembling hand 

Replaced the proffered flower, 
O'er the bright haven of her brow, 

Did no dark shadow lower ? 
Started no tear in her full eye, 

Heaved not her virgin breast? 
Gushed there no feeling on her heart, 

To speak it ill at rest ? 

And when he has left her there, 

And taken another's hand, 
And led her out to move with him 

Amidst that mirthful band, 
Must he not feel that his neglect 

Has touched her to the core ? 
And from her heart-fount turned away 

Joy's tide for ever more? 



SCRAP BOOK. 287 

This incident upon which the above song is founded, 
was at the time at which it occurred, the subject of fash- 
ionable remark. The Hon. Mr. R. a professed roue, 
and a character in more than one celebrated novel, had 

made considerable progress in the affections of Lady 

when some other object attracted his attention, and he 
suddenly neglected her. On the occasion alluded to, the 
young lady was crossing the room to speak to a friend, 
when she unwittingly dropped a rose which she wore at 
her bosory, and R., who was passing at the time, picked 
it up, and presented it with his usual inimitable sangfroid. 
Lady could hardly conceal her emotion. 



Against, the Will. — Nothing is ever done in the 
best manner that is done without delight. The self- 
denial that is performed as a burdensome duty is far less 
valuable, for its life and spirit are crushed out. The 
stranger who takes charge of a child may rigorously 
compel himself to undergo whatever self-denial he thinks 
necessary to the child's welfare ; but let the mother come, 
with her full, loving heart, and the sacrifice she makes 
for its good, without a shade of regret or hesitation, will 
outweigh a hundred times in real effectiveness the 
heaviest self-imposed burdens of the other. The same 
is true of every kind of labor and in every relation of 
life. 

Despair is the shroud of hope. When hope dies all 
is desolation ; — the mind is a sepulchre, the world is a 
desolate waste. 



288 jane Rowley's 

IF TO LOVE THEE IN SILENCE: 

If to love thee in silence, in gloom, and its sadness 

Be love that has charms for a spirit like thine, 
Oh ! give the world all thy spring-time of gladness. 

For joy is no lure to a passion like mine. 
I wish not, I ask not, to share in the hour 

When thy soul flashes forth its most eloquent gleams, 
Give me but the moment when feeling has power, 

And the heart can recall all its earliest dreams. 

Oh ! then be the world's while its pleasures can charm 
thee, 

And wit's meteor flashes illumine thy way ; 
But be mine when the glow of affection can warm thee, 

And spread o'er thy spirit a kindlier ray. 
Let others rejoice in the halo around thee, 

The bright beams of fame that are over thee cast ; 
I ask but to know that the chain which has bound thee 

So fondly to me, will cling on to the last. 



A man should neither be a hermit, nor a buffoon. 
Human nature is not so miserable as that we should be 
always melancholy ; nor so happy that we should be 
always merry. In a word, a man should not live as if 
there was no God in the world ; nor at the same time, as 
if there were no men in it. 



SCRAP BOOK. 289 

KITTY'S PRAYER. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN JERNINGHAM's JOURNAL." 

'The misthress is dyin', the docthors have said so, 

Och, who'd be a docthor, to bring us our deaths? 
To sit by our beds, with a hand on the head so, 

A feelin' the pulses, an' countin' the breaths ! 
To drive to our doors in a vehicle stately, 

Outstretchin' a hand for a fee on the sly, 
To settle our deaths for us very complately, 

An' very contintedly leave us to die ! 

"The misthress is dyin' — it is such a pity — 

The master just worships the ground 'neath her tread, 
She's such a swate crathur, so smilin' and pretty — 

Is there no cross ould woman could go in her stead? 
vShe trates us so kindly, we think it an honor 

To larn from herself her own ilegant ways. 
I lov'd her the minute I set my eyes on her, 

An' what will I do whin she's dead, if you plase ? 
"I hate our fine docthor ! he ought to be cryin', 

But smil'd as he ran to his carriage and book, 
Jist afther he told us the darlint was dyin' — 

Shure if she recover'd how quare he would look. 
I know he's a janius — the best in the city — 

But God's above all — even docthors — who knows ? 
I am but a poor little sarvint," says Kitty, 

"But even a sarvint can pray I suppose." 



290 JANE ROWLEY S 

So, down on her knees in a whirl of emotion, 

With anger and grief in a terrible swing, 
Her Irish tongue praying with utter devotion, 

In faith that but few to their praying can bring. 
The poor little servant — her tears flowing over — 

Implor'd with a force that my verse cannot give, 
With the zeal of a saint and the glow of a lover, 

That, in spite of the doctor, the mistress might live. 

The master sat close by his darling, despair in 

His stupefied sorrow, just holding her hand — 
He prayed, to be sure, but no hope has his prayer in, 

In fact, he was dazed, and could scarce understand. 
Her delicate lips had a painful contraction, 

Her sensitive eyes seemed sunken and glazed ; 
He knew in his heart there could be no reaction, 

He just sat and saw her — in fact he was dazed. 

A pallor less ghastly — the eyelashes quiver — 

Life springs to the face in a sudden surprise — 
Grim Death retrogrades, with a sad little shiver — 

She smiles at the master, her soul in her eyes ! 
A wonderful hope — is it hope ? is it terror ? 
Leaps up in his heart while he watches his wife — 
Is it life before death? is it fancy's sweet error? 

Or is it — or can it be — verily Life ? 
Oh, send for the doctor — death hangs on each minute- 

They wait for his fiat, as that of a god— 



SCRAP BOOK. 29I 

Who sagely remarks that there is something in it, 
Granting leases of life with an autocrat's nod. 

Joy rings through the house that was silent in sadness ; 
The master believes that he ne'er felt despair, 

And Kitty, the servant, laughs out, mid her gladness, 
To think that they none of them, knew of her prayer. 



SONG OF THE PANSIES ; OR TWO FACES 
UNDER A HOOD. 

BY J. A. WADE. 

Come hither ! come hither ! in us you will find, 
True emblems of all sorts of hearts ; 

Sweet woman in every change of her mind, 
Proud man's in his deepest of arts. 

When a maiden first time, to a fond lover's sighs, 
Says "No," in a petulant mood, 

It's a thousand to one, from the glance of her eye, 

She has two faces under a hood. 

When an old maid of sixty, or youth of sixteen, 

Tries hard with affection to gaze ; 
Then cries, "how extravagant, dear, you have been," 

Same time his extravagance pays, — 
Why, he's deeply grateful, she's proud to assist ; 

But for us, be it well understood, 
Take one or the other, whichever you list, 

There are two faces under a hood. 



292 JANE ROWLEYS 

When two hearts are plighted in one holy vow, 

And the hope-wreath of joy has been torn 
By death or dishonor from his honest brow, 

And heart' s-ease from her the forlorn ! 
Oh ! think as a minstrel when asked to begin, 

Mid a crowd that is joyous and rude, 
And not "Pansies for thought," like her sorrow within 

For she's two faces under a hood. 

In truth there is nothing but falsehood around 

In this treacherous planet of yours, 
One moment with beautiful flowers you are crown'd, 

The next but a thorn endures. 
And yet you have spirits, whose whimsical spell 

Can charm e'en variety's mood, 
Humor, wit, poetry, music, all dwell 

In your two faces under a hood. 



Love is the shadow of the morning 
Which decreases, as the day advances. 
Friendship is the shadow of the evening, 
That strengthens with the setting sun of life. 



The value of a friend and the price we set on a person 
is seen in our way of defending him in his absence. 



Marriage is defined by someone to be two nods and a 
prayer. 



SCRAP BOOK. 293 

THE COVENANTER'S SON. 

Young Allen of the Highlands, my brother dear is gone, 

And dreary, through the long, long night, I sit and weep 
alone ; 

My fancy hears his spirit voice, within the twilight dim, 

And sleep brings but an aching dream of days gone by, 
and him. 

Of him, and of that fearful hour when from our own fire- 
side, 

And from the Bible where he knelt to seek his soul's true 
guide, 

They dragged my brother forth to death — to death — as 
'twas a crime 

To worship as our fathers, in the Covenanters' time? 

My mother shrieked — her woe was wild — she clasped 
their cruel knees, 

But tears, nor yet her sad grey hairs, might plead with 
men like these ; 

They dragged him to the lonely moor, that dark and 
dreadful night, 

And slew him there, amidst our cries and prayers, before 
our sight. 

I saw him kneel, in manly bloom, their deadly guns be- 
fore — 

I clasped him in my arms a corpse, all cold, and red with 
gore, 



294 JANE ROWLEYS 

They left me to my misery — like slaves of guilt they fled, 
With the curse of Heaven, and the brand of Cain upon 
their head. 

My mother like one half deranged, lay moaning wild and 

deep, 
And gazing on the corpse — that gaze had made a fiend 

to weep ; 
I would have whisper'd comfort, had not anguish stopped 

my breath ; 
I would have pray'd, but all my words burst forth in 

shrieks of death. 
We buried him in secret, and in secret wept him dead ; 
But from that night my mother pined, and never left her 

bed, 
I toil for food from morn to eve, and soothe her as I may, 
But what can heal a broken heart, recall the mind's lost 

ray? 

And he, the truest, best of friends, young Bruce of Ron- 

edell, 
Hath sued me to become his bride — and, oh ! I love 

him well ; 
But never will I quit thy side — no, no ! my mother dear, 
Though he should choose another, some lovelier bride, 

and leave me here ! 
Some happier one who loves him more, but that could 

never be, 



SCRAP BOOK. 29^ 

Oh, if, if, — I should lose my love, my mother dear, for 

thee — 
If coldly he should turn away, and other maiden wed, 
Then, mother let me die with thee — thy grave my bridal 

bed. 



FORGIVENESS. 

It is remarked by Steele, in one of his admirable 
papers in the Guardian, that "A coward has often 
fought ; a coward has often conquered ; but a coward 
never forgave." This shows a fine discrimination of the 
cowardly character. 

To pass over an offence is a very different thing from 
forgiving it. There are very few who are capable of 
that full forgiveness of the heart and understanding which 
is contemplated in Christian doctrine. Some forgive 
from indolence, some from carelessness, some from sen- 
sibility. To forgive utterly, and out of a sense of duty, 
is that act of obedience and self-government after which 
we should strive. Cowards are too malignant to have 
any notion of this. 



Calumny is like the wasp, that teases, and against 
which you must not attempt to defend yourself unless 
you are certain to destroy it, otherwise it returns to the 
charge more furious than before. 



2^6 JANE ROWLEYS 

The World. — The little I have seen of the world 
teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, 
not in anger. When I take the history of one poor heart 
that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the 
struggles and temptations it has passed through ; the 
feverish inquietude of hope and fear ; the pressure of 
want ; the desertion of friends ; I would fain leave the 
erring soul of my fellow-man with Him from whom it 
came. — Longfellow. 

THE OATH. 

"Do you," said Emma, t'other day, 

"In earnest, love me, as you say, 

Or are those tender words applied, 

Alike to fifty girls beside ?" 

"Dear cruel girl, cruel I forbear, 

For by those cherry lips I swear " — 

She stopped me, as the oath I took, 

And said — "You've sworn — so kiss the book !" 



What a Friend Ought to be. — May my friend 
never express, even by a glance, more interest in me than 
he really feels, still worse would it be, if, from a mistaken 
spirit of kindness he should forbear to dissent from my 
opinions or practice. God forbid, that when I look to 
friendship as a firm rock to sustain me in any given 
emergency, I should find nothing but a mask of con- 
cession. Better a nettle in the side of my friend, than to 
be merely his echo. — Emerson. 



INDEX. 



Page 



Page 



Adam's Sleep 


40 


Breath 


207 


Adieu 


34 


Bright Silver Lily 


97 


Affectation 


125 


Byron 


260 


Affection 


66,75 


Calumny 


295 


Against the Will 


287 


Canteen 


32 


Age 


129 


Caprice 


89 


Allen A'Dale 


189 


Cat 


109 


Ambition 


167 


Character 


214 


An Exile's Song 


111 


Charity 205, 


207 


Arab Maxims 


116 


Children 144 


250 


Aspen 


194 


Choral Workman's Song 


77 


At the Tomb 


100 


Circassian Slave 


35 


Baronet's Telescope 


18 


" Come" 


81 


Beautiful Extract 


285 


Conscience 


218 


Beautiful Reflection 


146 


Coon Hnnting 


54 


Beauty 


21 


Covenanter's Son 


293 


Be Brave 


108 


Countenance 


126 


Beecher, Henry Ward 


221 


Courage in Woman 


33 


Uells of Shandon 


149 


Cultivation of Woman's Mind 34 


Benevolence 


14 


Dav Lily 


263 


Better Late than Never 


52 


Death 


115 


Bigotry 


203 


Death's Final Conquest 


249 


Bivouac of the Dead 


154 


Debt 


162 


Blacksmith Interviewed 


103 


Decoration Day 


159 


Blush 


203 


Despair 


287 


Book 


251 


Discontent 


153 


Bride's Father 


7 


Discord 


117 


Bravery 


60 


Domestic Etiquette 


127 



2 9 8 



INDEX. 



Page 

Dying Flowers 46 

Eastern Woman 212 

Endure Hardships 192 

Envy 195 
Elegance does not Make a 

Home 147 
Epistle to a Young Friend 120 
Eric and Axel 106 
Evil Speaking 153 
Faith, Hope and Charity 205 
" Fare Thee Well " 57 
Fault Finding 236 
Fearful Man 226 
Female Purity 190 
Female Virtue, etc. 124 
First Love 55 
Flattery 198 
Flowers 115 
Forgiveness 295 
Forge 180 
Freedom 14 
Friend 183 
Friendship 66, 92, 156, 162, 210 
From Good Housekeeping 168 
From Moore's Sacred Songs 60 
Front and Side Doors 151 
Funeral of Napoleon 47 
Gentle Words 199 
Give me the Hand 191 
Gladstone 245 
" God Save Liberty " 186 
Good Advice 203 
Good Breeding 129 
Good Book and a Good Wo- 
man 164 
Good Education 210 
Good Name 74 
Good Wife 138 
Gougana Barra 201 
Grattan 138 
Grave of Burns 230 
Grave of Lincoln 261 
Graves of a Household 26 
Great Varieties 172 



Page 

Guardian Angel 55 
Happiness 91, 253 

Harp of O'Carolan 184 

Heart 175 

" Heart that Loves Not " 123 

Holy Life 74 
Home 49, 59, 115, 165 

Home Music 165 

Home, Sweet Home 254 

Honor to Bergh 93 

Hope 140 

Human Understanding 192 

How to Talk Well 183 

I'd Be a Butterfly 98 

If to Love Thee in Silence 288 
I Love Her, How I Love Her 25 

In a Railway Car 241 

Independence 79 

Independent 163 

Indolence 6 

Influence 208 

Ingratitude 253 
" I Remember, I Remember " 119 

Irishman 259 
It Spoils a Man to Marry 

Him 20 

Ivy 224 

Jealousy 24 

Kithleen O'Niall 281 

Keeping His Word 141 

Kindness 112 

Kind Words 203 

Kitty's Prayer 289 

Labor 182 

" Land that We Left," etc. 134 

Language of Flowers 264 

Lawyer 207 

Life 109 

Life's Combats 207 

Light and Flowers 56 

Lines on a Skull 139 
Lines Written Upon Seeing 

Mulvaney's Picture 42 

Little Minds 23 



INDEX. 



299 



Page 

Little Things 55 

Living 76 

Long Years Have Passed 15 

Looks and Tones, 86 
Love 135, 187, 236, 263, 292 

Love and Care 279 

Loves of the Plants 209 

Man 288 

Man and His Maker 51 

Man I Love 13 

Manly Qualities 174 

Man Must Rule Himself 256 

Mary MaChree 44 
Mariner's Farewell to His 

Ship 27 
Matrimony 46 
Memory of the Dead 18 
Mirth 172 
Modesty 60 
"Moll" Pitcher at Mon- 
mouth 216 



Money 


145, 176 


Money Question 


161 


Moralities 


193 


Morn's Offering 


16 


Music and Song 


247 


My Native Land 


46 


Napoleon's Grave 


196 


National Hymn 


277 


Night Walker 


61 


Noble Souls 


125 


No Letters 


85 


Nothing is Lost 


38 


Oak Tree 


229 


Oath 


29 



Oh ! Fly to the Hills 188 

Oh! the Shamrock 257 

Old Enough 91 

Only a Dor 94, 158 
On the Rhine's Returning 

into Germany 78 

Our Actions 192 

Paddy's Excelsior 136 



Page 

" Papa What is a News- 
paper ?" 30 
Parrot 41 
Parting Song 130 
Patience 153 
Patriot's Last Appeal 166 
Paul Jones 274 
Peep at the Public Man 206 
People will Talk 88 
Perfume of a Flower 153 
Phillips, Wendell 243 
Plea for the Dove 80 
Pleasures of Hope, extract 

from 251 

Poetry 5, 76 

Pole's Adieu 6 

Politeness 40, 215 

Prayers I Don't Like 110 

Prodigals 167, 207 

Pure Benevolence 234 

Quarrels 239 

Receipt for Cooking Hus- 
bands 255 
Recommended to the Atten- 
tion of M. 136 
Recreation 44 
Reform 145 
Renunciation 119 
Reputation and Life 246 
Respectability 175 
Responsibility of Manhood 96 
Retrospection 24 
Rivals 11 
Rose 286 
Rural Felicity 207 
St. Patrick 240 
Scatter the Gems of the Beau- 
tiful 69 
Sea 157 
Secret 129 
Shakespeare's Epitaph 197 
Sheridan's Ride 67 
Shipwreck 169 
Shoemaker 276 



300 



INDEX. 



Page 



Page 



Silence 


9 


Trifles 


5 


112 


Sinflle 


169 


Trooper to His Mare 




200 


Simplicity of Dress 


82 


True Love 




141 


Sin 


187 


Truth 43, 


126 


145 


Sincerity 


164 


Tsar Oleg 




231 


Small Courtesies 


172 


"TurnOut" 




75 


Snow 


34 


Two Charmers 




285 


Somebody's Mother 


170 


Two Flags 




131 


Song 29, 49, 53, 87, 99, 148 


215 


Uncle Tom's Glimpse 


of 




Song for Boys 


125 


Glory 




92 


Song of the Pansies 


291 


Vase 




256 


Sonnets 


23 


Value of Time 




129 


Sound Doctrine 


112 


Vanity 




46 


Span of Life 


124 


We Meet in Crowds 




197 


Spirit Guide 


252 


We Might Have Been 




204 


Stanza 21 


211 


What a Friend Ought to Be 


296 


Star of My Home 


238 


What is Hope 




225 


Star Spangled Banner 


163 


What is Love 




24 


Stranger's Heart 


198 


What Might Have Been 




227 


Street Arab 


71 


"When I am Dead 




178 


Sublime Truth 


82 


Will Watch 




113 


Success in Life 


233 


Wish 




56 


Swarm of B's Worth Having 102 


Woman 10 


73, 


190 


Sympathy 


237 


Woman — a Dialogue 




63 


Ten Hearts 


285 


Woman's Ability to Act 




162 


Thought, A 


12 


Woman's Fate 




173 


Three Different Things 


147 


Woman's Influence 


9 


, 37 


Time 


144 


Woman's Love 




19 


'Tis Sweet to Love in Child- 




Woman's Question 




83 


hood 


8 


Women in Conversation 




105 


To 


39 


Work 




79 


To the Violet 


28 


World 


250 


296 


To Thine Own Self Be True 


248 


Worth Knowing 




214 


Traducer 


146 


Written by the Seaside 




235 


Tranquility 


126 


Yes and No 




205 



T 



